


The Plunge

by ThatGaiaGirl



Series: Murder Husbands Saga [1]
Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Asexual Tatiana, Canon Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Fake Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Internalized Acephobia, Implied/Referenced Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Manipulation, Period-Typical Homophobia, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 36,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23150713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatGaiaGirl/pseuds/ThatGaiaGirl
Summary: It was funny, really. Curt expected that his grip on Owen’s hand wouldn’t be enough, and he would have to watch the love of his life die no matter what. He never considered the fact that the grip of his shoes on the platform would be the one to fail.Curt Mega followed his partner, falling over the precipice to his doom.***Basically, what if Curt tried to save Owen and fell with him? This is for my own wishes of them not hating each other and also still have a n g s t.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Series: Murder Husbands Saga [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704028
Comments: 137
Kudos: 242





	1. Prologue

“Curt Mega, you’re going to be the death of me!”

“Come on, you know I’d never let you down!”

Owen Carvour was scaling the steps up the exit just a bit too fast for Curt Mega to catch up. He knew this was on purpose, Owen would probably be pissy at him for being so careless with the bombs when they got out. Curt could handle it, however. He was riding high on success after success, and couldn’t wait for some time alone with Owen after this. He knew it wouldn’t take much to smooth things over in the long run.

Curt had finally managed to catch up with his partner when it happened. Maybe it was the imminent threat of the bombs, or Owen’s annoyance at him, or Curt’s light-hearted teasing. The simple fact is, neither of them noticed it until it was too late. Before he knew it, Owen was falling.

Time slowed down. Curt knew there was no way for him to survive. From what he could tell, the impact would break a majority of his bones, as well as probable internal bleeding. He couldn’t feasibly grab Owen and get him out of here before they both blew up, and even if he could, there was no guarantee Owen could survive his injuries. As reckless at it was, there was only one way to solve this in Curt’s mind; stop Owen from falling.

Time slowly started to kick back into action, Curt already moving towards his partner. Despite all odds, he managed to get a grip on Owen’s hand. “Hold on!” he cried desperately, pouring all his strength into keeping Owen aloft. It was funny, really. Curt expected that his grip on Owen’s hand wouldn’t be enough, and he would have to watch the love of his life die no matter what. He never considered the fact that the grip of his shoes on the platform would be the one to fail.

Curt Mega followed his partner, falling over the precipice to his doom. He could barely register it before the pain hit, closely followed by blackness. When his vision cleared, he could see the building crumbling around him. He couldn’t move his body, the agony of a million broken bones told him that. It didn’t matter that much anymore, really. He only wished he could turn his head away from Owen’s broken body beside him. He was still twitching in pain, and Curt forced his eyes closed. He didn’t want his lover’s corpse to be the last thing he saw before their shared demise. No, the inside of his eyelids was far preferable to that.

_Well, at least we gave it our all_ , he quietly thought to himself. He could feel the heat of the bombs rushing into the room. Curt Mega lay there, broken, waiting for death to claim him.

But the world, it seems, had other plans.


	2. Chimera

The Man with No Name couldn’t quite believe their luck. Chimera had gotten word of the operation on the Russian base, and got there just as it was blowing up. Judging from their information, it was the work of A.S.S and M16. They were scouring the rubble for something salvageable, anything to help them, really. It was then that they found two bodies, broken seemingly beyond repair, buried under the rubble. Whether they were surviving Russians or Spies didn’t really matter to them; assets were assets, and they could at least torture some information out of them if they were truly useless. The Man with No Name got to work on identifying them as soon as he saw the faces, which were thankfully intact after the explosion. What he found left him speechless.

They were spies. Very specifically, Agent Curt Mega, A.S.S and Agent Owen Carvour, M16. _The_ Curt Mega, America’s best spy, and Britain’s top agent. Not only that, a quick background search showed that they were always paired together, enough to be considered partners, while still working for different agencies. With that much time alone, some form of personal relationship would have developed. The Man with No Name chuckled to himself. Not only did they have two of the best goddamned agents in the globe, but a dynamic between them that could be so easily exploited. People, the Man had found, would go exceptionally far to save their friends. This would be a piece of cake.

The Man with No Name was assigned to them, at his request. He did have a name once, of course, but names only served to identify people, and someone identifying him would not help Chimera in the slightest. So, the name had gone. He had the faith of his superiors, he had already convinced many a French, British and American spy to join their cause. It wasn’t hard to disrupt people’s trust in the government these days.

The Man was standing beside the bed of Agent Mega. He had taken the least damage out of the two, and had been reported to be in a lucid, half-asleep state. The Man always approved of his subjects being in states like this. It meant they could answer his questions and never remember what happened. The Man sat beside Mega, waiting to be noticed. He’d already gone over the script in his head, having done this a million times. He was already preparing an English Accent for when Carvour finally entered a similar stupor.

Mega stirred slightly, his glassy eyes flickering to the Man beside him. The Man steeled himself, ready to act the part of an American Operative who rescued him from the exploding building. Mega was more likely to loosen his tongue if he had some level of trust in the Man. When Mega finally started speaking, however, the Man realised this would be easier than he thought.

“Owen?” Mega croaked, eyes still clouded over. The Man suppressed his shock quickly, and re-evaluated the evidence in his head. So not only were they close, Mega believed that Carvour would be the first person to see him after a near-death experience. Interesting...

“I’m here,” the Man replied, thanking his lucky stars that he knew what Carvour’s accent was. He admitted to himself that it wasn’t a perfect match, but in this state, Mega wouldn’t notice.

A small smile lit up the Agent’s face. “Good, I thought you might’ve chickened out on me again, you old sod. How much time do we have?”

The Man assumed he was referring to the arrival of the A.S.S, as personal relationships were frowned upon in spying circles. “Not much, I’m afraid. Your people are due here any minute.” If Mega thought his time alone was limited, he would be more likely to spill.

He frowned. “Have I done something wrong?”  
“What?”  
“You’d have usually called me ‘love’ by now.”

The Man frowned. He’d heard of the British casually dropping names like ‘love’ and ‘dear’ into conversations before, but always found it rather cliche. Still, he thought, best to go along with it for now.

“Of course you haven’t, love.”  
Mega smiled, and the Man could’ve sworn he’d muttered ‘there it is’ under his breath.  
“I’m afraid my memory’s a fit foggy, could you catch me up on what the fuck just happened?”  
The curse was clearly meant to elicit humour, so the Man chuckled.  
“Well, the building blew up, for a start.”

Mega’s face seemed to clear a bit. “Oh, oh _god_ , the charges. I’m sorry Owen, I really should’ve been more careful with that.”  
The Man didn’t know whether Carvour would agree or disagree to that statement, so he made an indistinguishable noise that could go either way.  
Mega scoffed. “Christ, Owen, you could at least try to disagree with me.”  
Aha. Scolding it was.  
“I’m sorry, my dear, but one of these days you will get yourself killed.”

Mega sighed. “I wished we could’ve spent some time alone together. Y’know...”  
The Man reeled slightly. If he was picking up the connotations in Mega’s voice correctly, and he was always correct, that meant...

_No. No way. This was too good to be true._

“Know what, Curt?” the Man asked. He injected a playful, coy tone to his voice. If he was right about this...

Mega laughed. “Come on, Owen, I thought you were the careful one.”

The Man could barely contain his excitement. _One, just one confession, and we could have them both_. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “We’re alone, Curt.”

Mega turned to him, eyes still glassed over. There was no way he saw anything beyond a blur. “It’s been so long,” Mega declared, “since I kissed you.”

The Man could almost jump for joy. They were Queer. They were Queer, and they were in love. The amount of homosexual and bisexual government agents the Man had found homeless on the streets after their sexuality was discovered, the sheer simplicity of turning them against a government that labeled them as ‘sexual perverts’, it was just too easy. The Man had no idea how they managed to hide this under the nose of their superiors for so long. This, _this_ would make his plans so much easier.

The Man gestured behind his back to the hidden camera, motioning for Mega to be put under again. He then turned his head to the side, as if he’d seen something. “They’re here” he whispered, “gotta go, love.”

“See you around,” Mega shuddered. The Man left the room, confident that Mega wouldn’t remember any of this. All that was left is for Carvour to corroborate on the details, which might take some more preparation. Mega’s words left the impression that Carvour would be a much tougher nut to crack. Still, the man was confident. Two men in government positions across the ocean, in love with each other. They were already as good as his.

These two, when their faith was broken, could easily become the deadliest men alive. And Chimera would own them.

The Man with No Name couldn’t quite believe their luck.


	3. Dead Men Walking

It was a strange experience, a corpse waking up. At least, Curt Mega assumed he was a corpse. Upon closer inspection, however, he realised he was alive. He frowned. _How can I be alive?_

He remembered the bombs. Charging up the steps after Owen, then...  
Owen falling. Trying to hold on. Hitting the ground. The heat of the fire.

Owen's dying form lying next to him.

Curt bolted upright, trying to force the image out if his head. _No, no, no, he's alive, he's alive. If i'm alive then so is he. He can't be..._

Deciding he didn't want to continue that train of thought, Curt examined his surroundings. He was in a hospital bed, much better quality that the mattresses at the A.S.S. He was definitely in some sort of compound, but it wasn't the Russians. He could recognise a Russian Compound when he saw one. No, he was most likely taken by some off-shoot agency. Experience told him that, more likely than not, he was up shit's creek.

He could hear footsteps on the other side of the door. Straining his ears, he managed to pick up a few words.  
"Mega... full recovery... M16..."

His listening in was cut off by the door being opened. A man dressed in black entered the room. He was rather mousy for Curt's taste, despite obvious evidence of physical training through his muscles. Owen was far better in the looks department. 

_Owen..._

Curt curbed his impatience. It was always wiser to let them speak first, according to Owen, at least. The technique was yet to fail him, so he decided to press later on.

"Agent Mega," the Man said. Curt couldn't place his accent. Instead of a response, he opted to glare into the Man's soul. If the Man had any reaction to this, he didn't show it. _This guy's good._

"I assume you'll understand me not divulging my name, considering your profession." The man tucked his hands into his pockets casually. "There is no need for alarm, we don't intend to hurt you."

_Yeah, right._

"Where's Owen?!" Curt demanded, refusing to break eye contact with the stranger. The Man simply smiled in response. "Of course, you'd be worried for your partner's safety." The man stayed as stubborn as Curt, eyes never flickering away once.  
"Agent Carvour is still recovering, I'm afraid. He took the brunt of the fall. It may still be days before he regains consciousness." The Man tilted his head, examining Curt. "Do you remember the circumstances of your injury? We assumed you were buried by the rubble from the explosion, but a clearer picture of what happened is always preferable."

Curt studied him. The stranger's facial expression made it clear that he wouldn't back down until he got an answer. Curt was a good spy, good enough to know not to go into detail. So, he kept it short and brief. The less this Man knows about the mission, the better. "We were trying to escape before it blew. Stairs were unstable. We fell, hit the ground before the place exploded." That seemed to be good enough for the man, as he nodded knowingly. "Alright, then. Rather unfortunate to end up in that position. Would've though the Russians had better quality construction, but I guess you can't win them all."

"Where am I?" Curt questioned. The Man had gotten his share of information, so now it was Curt's turn.  
"This is a Chimera compound."  
"What's Chimera?"  
Curt didn't expect that one to get an answer. Any competent agency would never willingly give up information to a known American Agent. The Man, however, was full of surprises.

"We are an organisation outside of the jurisdiction of your Governments. We find some of their policies... troubling, to say the least. We hope to change the world for the better, at least, eventually. We were the ones who organised the rescue of you and Agent Carvour from the Russian Compound. It seems that, since your agencies abandoned you, we had to step in for them. It's a shame to let such good people go to waste like that."

Curt barked out a laugh. "You expect me to take that bait? Unless you have a reason the A.S.S. would want to get rid of me, then you'll have to try a _lot_ harder to get something outta me."  
The Man didn't seem to be annoyed, or amused, or any of the typical reactions. In fact, he looked rather... solemn. Like he pitied Curt. He would never admit this to himself, but a small shred of worry sparked in his chest. Why did this guy feel sorry for him?

"The deepest apologies, Agent Mega, but i'm afraid we do have proof that you were, how do you say it? _Hung out to dry_. We plan on explaining what we know when you and Carvour fully recover. Until then, I suggest you stay here. You should be discharged tomorrow, and any updates about Carvour will be relayed directly to you."

The man nodded pleasantly to him. "I wish you a full recovery, Agent Mega."  
He left the room, leaving Curt to process his words. What possible reason would the A.S.S. have to get rid of him? Cynthia was a bitch, sure, but he knew she liked him around the place. Why would she abandon him? Unless they knew...

_No, that's impossible. Not even Mom knows about this. We've been careful, too careful, to hide this. There's no way._

Curt sighed. His main focus shifted to Owen. So he was alright after all. The relief that flooded his body caused him to collapse back onto the pillows. In just a little while, he could see Owen again...

He wasn't quite sure about Chimera. All of his instincts spelled out _Bad News_ in bold capitals. The organisation did save him and Owen, and it seems like he wouldn't be able to leave just yet, so his judgement would have to wait a little. Until he gets to talk to Owen, at least.

He stared up at the ceiling, willing for Owen to wake up. The sooner that happened, the sooner they could escape. Being a step ahead was always Owen's specialty, after all.


	4. Old Faces

The Man with No Name was riding high.

Why? Well, it seemed the universe was on his side for once. He fancied that he had the greatest luck of anyone else in Chimera.

At first, it seemed like his luck was fading. After successfully gaining a definition of their relationship from Mega, the Man had waited for Carvour to enter the same stupour. When he eventually did, the Man quickly found himself disappointed. Carvour was far more tight-lipped than he expected, and failed to provide any new or useful information. _So much for interrogation tactics_. The one thing Carvour had successfully provided was a confirmation; they were indeed lovers. With nothing else to look into until they'd recovered enough to wake up fully, the Man began trudging through all the intercepted messages that pertained too Mega and Carvour. They had been either copying or stealing reports made back to the A.S.S and M16 for the last few months, in hope of disorientating their Agents and leaving them fumbling. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't, but being informed of their whereabouts was highly beneficial to Chimera in the long run.

During his sifting, he found himself astonished at the level of detail in these reports. Mega and Carvour had been extremely careful, unlike how they treated their missions, it seems. They mentioned each others names just the right amount to be considered unsuspicious, the limited language used to subtly draw someones attention away from potentially suspect interactions that they couldn't exclude. It was all rather impressive, and the Man would've loved it if it wasn't exactly the opposite of what he was looking for. He needed, more than anything, a slip-up. Something, _anything_ , that could potentially give away their secret. It doesn't matter how vague; edits and forgeries could be made to improve it. The meticulous care put into hiding this 'secret' of theirs did _not_ help things.

He resorted to expanding his search to any message pertaining to the spies, no matter who sent them. After an absolute slog of going through vague codes and one-sentence briefings, he _finally_ found something interesting. A seemingly urgent report from an A.S.S Agent accompanying the pair on a mission a month ago. The Chimera records marked it 'BLACKMAIL' in scorching letters. Anything that could be used as blackmail was taken in its entirety; the person it was sent to never received it. Listed under it was 'MEGA, Curtis [A.S.S.]' and 'CARVOUR, Owen [M16]. Well, being a homosexual in the government would certainly count as worthy blackmail material. _Circumstances have changed_ , the Man thought to himself as he opened the folder. What he found, however, was beyond his wildest dreams.

> **MESSAGE INTERCEPTED: A.S.S.**
> 
> **AGENT: MATTHEWS, Parker**
> 
> **STATUS: TERMINATED**
> 
> **[BLACKMAIL]**
> 
> **\- MEGA, Curtis [A.S.S.]** **  
> \- CARVOUR, Owen [M16]**
> 
> **TRANSCRIPT START**

Urgent. Agents Mega and Carvour potentially compromised.

Arrived at Hotel as planned. Base successfully located. Agent Mega searched for alternative entrances while I tracked their movements. Agent Carvour insisted on following him due to Mega's recklessness. Important later.

Returned to Hotel. Discussed infiltration, scheduled for tomorrow 0630. Alarms triggered, failed to warn Mega and Carvour. Potential Hit set on top two Agents. First room already broken into, bellboy deceased, room empty. Caught Hitman in the act of picking the lock of the second door. Succeeded, terminated before damage was done.

Saw into the room. Agents Mega and Carvour were sharing the bed, as if a man and woman. Evidence around the room [letters, gifts] suggests a romantic or sexual relationship. Highly possible that both Agents are homosexual. According to [REDACTED], homosexuals and other perverts present a liability to the A.S.S. Awaiting further instructions on the situation.

> **TRANSCRIPT END**

The Man with No Name could've laughed with joy. This was perfect! An actual Agent that saw the evidence for himself, who died in the field soon after? It was a godsend!

He smiled to himself. Not only did he not have to edit the original transcript (far too time-consuming for his taste), he already had chosen a perfect combination of phrases from pre-existing transmissions that would make for a perfect reply. This was going to be easier than he thought.

***

Owen Carvour was pissed as all hell. Not only had he failed the mission, but was now stuck in a highly suspect facility with too many injuries to count, being intermittently interrogated by a Man who refused to give his name. Oh, he knew all about Owen though. Too much about Owen. The worst thing, by _far_ the worst thing of all, was Curt. He refused to give Owen a straight answer about Curt. Just 'he's in the facility', 'we rescued you both', 'he's recovering quicker'. Not a lick of anything useful.

Perhaps that was why he was furious. He remembered it, remembered everything in clear detail. He most definitely remembered the moment he dragged Curt down with him, literally. The image of Curt haunted him. Strapped to a chair, eyes glassed over, unable to speak except for screams of pain. He'd seen Curt tortured before. He knew the situation in and out. He was already pumping himself up to beat the shit out of these 'Chimera' Agents for what they'd done to Curt, despite not having arrived to that moment in time. _Prepare yourself early_ , he said to himself. That kept the sound of Curt hitting the concrete beside him at bay.

***

Curt was finally allowed to get up and walk around. He always got antsy when he was injured, especially when being treated in foreign territory. He was still covered in patches and bandages for the smaller cuts, and his face had a few nasty bruises. He could easily brave these, though. It's not like a couple of paper-cuts and light bruising would keep and internationally acclaimed Spy from moving around.

He couldn't deny it; he felt lonely. So, incredibly lonely. It was slowly driving him insane, examining the positively barren medical wing with the only worthwhile interaction asking the mysterious nameless stranger about Owen. He was actually nameless, Curt had discovered. He had no idea how or why this man didn't have a name, but it didn't exactly help Curt get comfortable with the place.

"Agent Mega," the mans voice came from behind him. "Yes?" he snapped back, not bothering to keep the hostility from his voice. This guy could suck it, he just wanted to see his boyfriends face again. The Man looked a little shaken up, but not by Curt. "It seems Agent Carvour is finally awake." Curt couldn't keep the smile off his face. So Owen had given this guy a verbal rough-up, huh? That was just like him. Curt nodded. "Then by all means, I'd like to see him."

***

"Where is Mega."

Carvour's voice was barely a whisper. A whisper that promised the most horrific torture man could think of if he didn't like the answer. His eyes bore straight through the Man with No Name, a laser boiling him from the inside out. The Man allowed a part of himself to admire Carvour. This was the most effort he'd ever put into appearing calm throughout his career, and this was coming from a (former) World War II espionage agent. He supposed there was no use in keeping them apart any longer.

As he left the room, all of the cameras that Carvour had seen (even the 'hidden' ones) deactivated. He knew Carvour noticed. When you think your alone, you say things you wouldn't say otherwise. He needed all the information he could get, so leaving them 'alone' would be beneficial in the long run.

***

Owen was boiling with rage. Well, either that or fear, he didn't know. There were few reasons someone would be willing to disable all their surveillance equipment, and none of them were good. Paper trails didn't help when it came to hiding dead bodies, after all. Maybe he'd finally done it; pressed about Curt one too many times, crossed the invisible line. The Man was affected by his demand, but once again, Owen couldn't tell the difference between fear and anger.

The door creaked open, causing Owen to jolt upright; he wouldn't give up without a fight. Beyond all expectations, Curt fucking Mega was the one in his room. Closing the door behind him, he quickly scanned the room for bugs and cameras. He looked awful, though Owen probably shouldn't judge, being the one still stuck in a hospital bed. "Curt," he whispered, no, he _willed_ it. Willed for Curt to be standing in front of him.

Curt's head snapped back to him, and his eyes widened. A mixture of horror, guilt and elation. _Why would Curt feel guilty?_

"Owen!" he could hear the relief in Curt's voice. He was by Owen's side in 10 seconds flat, grasping his hand gently. It felt warm, familiar, felt _real_. This wasn't a dream, some sick hallucination.

"You're okay," they breathed in unison. Realising what they'd just done, they laughed, also in unison. Owen sighed. "For once, you’re the first to recover, Curt." He smiled. "I have to admit, it's nice to beat you at something."

Something was off with Curt. In the moment their eyes met, Owen could tell. “Curt.”

”I’m sorry, Owen.”

That came out of nowhere.

”If I...” Curt cursed under his breath, clearly avoiding Owen’s gaze. "God, it's my fault, isn't it?"

He was flabbergasted. What would Curt have to blame himself for? Falling over? He opened his mouth to protest, but Curt cut him off.

"Don't lie to me, Owen, it won't help. If I wasn't so reckless... that fucking banana peel, who would've thought? Not me, clearly." He sighed. "I thought we were going to die. I was sure of it. If I had killed you..."

"Curt."

Owen clasped Curt's hands in his own, endlessly thankful that it didn't hurt to move his arms. "You did nothing wrong, love. You tried to save me. It wasn't particularly _successful_ , but you did try."

"I couldn't leave you behind."

Owen smiled, leaning as much weight as he dared against Curt. He didn't trust the room to be unseen, even if the cameras were off. Curt seemed to share his concerns, refraining from comforting Owen further, despite him _clearly_ wanting to kiss him. Anything more than this, and people would become suspicious. It pained Owen, not being able to properly talk to each other, but it was for their own good. Being found out... well, he didn't want to think about it.

Curt silently mouthed 'I love you' to him, so subtly one could mistake it for a sharp intake of air. Owen gave a small smile, mouthing 'I love you too' back to him. Curt gently put an arm around him, as if comforting a friend. It wasn't much, but for now, it was enough.

***  
  


The Man with No Name chuckled to himself. They really were the best in the business, weren't they? It didn't matter much now, of course. Their secret was no longer theirs.

"We've finished the documents."

The Man smiled.

"Good."

The Agents were as good as theirs.


	5. Our Secret

Owen had never cherished walking more than he did right now. After being trapped in that infernal room for god knows how long, he was _finally_ able to leave. Even though his movements were still restricted, at least he could move. Curt's company didn't hurt things either. Feigned arrogance, quips, the occasional brush of the hand... honestly, Owen had no idea what he'd do if he was alone right now. Probably be bored out of his skull. Maybe start punching things. Hell, it was a 50/50 chance of him doing that right now.

Curt was starting to look like himself again. The cuts on his body had stopped weeping, starting to close up. The bruises on his face were fading from sickly yellow green to a soft red. Owen still looked as if he lost a boxing match, but he honestly didn't care. Curt didn't, either. He made it very clear, despite not being able to 'kiss it better' (his words, not Owens).

Curt was in the middle of a rousing story involving poison darts, the French Government and a particularly pissed-off Cynthia when the Man with No Name entered the room, folder in hand. Both men whipped around to face him, conversation dying on their lips. Owen injected a hint of malice into his gaze, leaning slightly to the side. He was partially blocking Curt from the Man's view. He knew it was petty, but he didn't care. He'd resort to sticking his tongue out, if it came down to it.

The Man showed no reaction. "I think I shouldn't need to clarify why i'm here, but just in case; I believe i've mentioned our suspicions of foul play in this accident to both of you."

He gave them a pitying look. "I think it's about time I elaborate."

***

"As you both know, the laws regarding individuals working in the Secret Service are... strict, to say the least."

The Man led them through the facility carefully, still hanging on to the folder. It was vital for the information to be revealed at the correct time, after all. Mega and Carvour were trailing behind him, casting a cynical eye over their surroundings. If he didn't know any better, he'd think he was being tailed.

"I'm afraid I'm less familiar with Britain's Policies regarding the hiring of Government Agents, but from what I've heard, it's not much better than in America."

A woman with closely shaven platinum blonde hair walked out into the hall. _Didn't expect anyone to be here, but I guess that makes it easier for me_. The woman took one look at Mega and Carvour, breaking out into a soft smile. She carefully fished through her pockets as she passed, two pamphlets sticking out in full view of the men. One labelled 'The Mattachine Review', and the other 'The Ladder'. He knew the Agents recognised the names; the Mattachine Society had been around since 1950, and the Daughters of Bilitis two years earlier.

"She's..." began Mega, under his breath.

"She's a Lesbian, yes. It seems she could tell you were like her."

Both men spun to him, venom in their eyes. "You know about us?" asked Carvour, his voice a low growl. He didn't sound so polite and British now; more like a feral dog.

The Man put on his best 'i'm sorry' sigh. "Yes, we know about your relationship. You shouldn't have to worry, though; unlike your agencies, we don't care about your personal life. It is yours, and yours only."

He made eye contact with the Agents, preparing to deliver the 'bad news'. "I'm afraid to say that the only reason we found out, is because _they_ found out."

Carvour tensed, and Mega cursed; the revelation had it's intended affect. As the Man opened the door to one of the meeting rooms, he noticed a change in the men's demeanour. It was telling, really, how quickly they grasped the opportunity to show their affection. The Man had taught himself to master peripheral vision; the slightest flicker of the eyes could give away the deadliest of secrets. As they walked through the door, the Man saw an unmistakeable shape from the corner of his eye.

Their hands were clasped together. _They really didn't waste any time, did they?_

When he entered the room, Carvour was leaning against the table in the room's centre for support, face cast in shadow. Mega was beside him, silent, but now had both his hands wrapped around Carvour's free one. "How," demanded Mega, face darkening, "how did they find out?"

The Man inhaled quietly, preparing himself for the monologue to come.

"We began monitoring messages between A.S.S. Agents a few months ago. The woman you saw? She was found out, and came here for help. Her former colleagues were still looking for her. We wanted to be able to evacuate in case they found us."

He slid the folder over to them.

"One of our Agents discovered this message being delivered to the A.S.S. Headquarters. I think you should read it yourselves."

What Carvour took from the folder was the transcript the Man had found, devoid of the extra details provided by Chimera. He watched as the breath caught in their throats, the panic blossomed in their eyes. Their worst suspicions, the thing they had surely been fearing for years, being held in their hands. It was fascinating.

"Curt?" muttered Carvour, voice oddly strangled. Mega stared at the message, slowly bringing himself to nod. "It's real," he said, looking away dejectedly. The Man was once again thankful to have found such a perfect report. No tampering meant that no Agent, regardless of skill, could detect forgery or foul play. Technically speaking, there wasn't any. The Man quietly hoped that the job he did on the response would be good enough to fool Mega. He did have a veritable smorgasbord of former A.S.S. Agents to examine it, after all.

"Of course, after this we became more thorough in our scanning. Enough people have lost their jobs because of leaks like this, some even their lives. Our methods were still not as effective as we hoped, as we only obtained the response letter about a week ago."

At this comment, Carvour immediately began digging through the folder again. _Now for the moment of truth_.

> **MESSAGE RECEIVED. AGENTS COMPROMISED, STILL USEFUL. DISCREET TERMINATION UNDER WAY. CONTINUE WITH CURRENT MISSION.**

Mega shook his head. "This can't be happening," he muttered. Carvour wrapped an arm around Mega, steadying him. _He didn't find anything suspicious about it, then_.

"It is our theory," the Man stated, "That your respective Agencies opted to kill you in the field. That's the only way this makes sense, after all. Two internationally acclaimed Spies, privy to so much classified information, are now viewed as 'compromised'. The logical thing to do would be execution. _But_ , you two are the best Agents they have, and their enemies are only getting stronger. So they kill two birds with one stone. Send you both into increasingly deadly situations, dealing a blow to their enemies and eliminating liabilities."

The men looked... dejected. Lost. They were practically hugging each other now.

"We suspect they may have tipped off the Russians about your arrival, as Mega was captured by them, correct?"

Silence. The Man gave a sorrowful sigh. "We do know that they returned to the Base about a day after us, presumably to try and find your bodies. You two were pronounced dead two days ago. I understand this is a lot to take in, and you'll need your time alone. We've prepared shared quarters for the both of you."

At that moment, a Chimera Agent opened the door, walking up to the Man. "M16 Agent in the vicinity," he whispered. It didn't really matter, Carvour and Mega were still reeling. The Man nodded. "We can use that."

***

Agent Harker let out a pained groan. He had been staking out this base for about a day, and still nothing. Patience had never been his strong suit, but he'd have to brave it if he wanted to find out what this place actually is. Which he did, if only for a paycheck.

The fact that one of his friends just died may have contributed to his sour mood, too.

Well, he said friend. Owen was more like a colleague. He liked to think they were on good terms, though.

A strange crackling noise came out of his communicator. Great, now he was going to get chewed out by the tech guys. Again.

The voice that came through, however, was decidedly not the tech guys.

"Hello? Can anybody hear me?"

Harker frowned. "Hello?"

"Oh thank god!"

"Who are you?"

"I'm with the A.S.S! I tracked down this base after Mega was caught in the explosion, I don't have much time."

_This is connected to Mega and Owen?_ "Calm down, alright! I'm an M16 envoy, I can get you out!"

There was a large _bang_ in the background, masking the words of the man on the other side.

"-faked it! They're here, they're alive!"

"What? Who faked what?"

"Mega and Carvour! I saw them, they're in here, they faked their deaths!"

That... didn't make any sense. "Why would they do that?"

"I found something in -" more static. Great. "-stopped it from being read, but I scanned it!"

Scan... a message? "Send it through!"

Whatever the man was about to say next, he would never know. There was the unmistakeable sound of gunshots on the other end, followed by deadly silence. The line went dead soon after.

Harker tried keeping his breathing even. At least the scan came through. He took one last look at the compound before reading the transcript.

_What are Mega and Owen hiding?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plot thickens~
> 
> I don't know how regular updates will be, depends on free time and Writer's Block (yaaay). Also, thank you for the comments! Even if I can't reply to them, they're still seen and highly appreciated!


	6. Under The Bus

"Owen? Are you alright?"

Owen was hunched over in his chair, chin resting on his fists. He was desperately hoping that Curt wouldn't notice his stress, as he'd spent a rather large chunk of time isolating it to the part of his mind with the least say over his actions. It seems his training didn't extend to things of this magnitude. _Go figure_.

He sighed, forcefully shoving his panic out of his body with an exhale. It didn't work.

He bolted upright, pacing laps around the room furiously. _That should answer his question_.

The stress was escaping it's confinement. Shit. Owen tried so desperately to ignore it, but it wouldn't give up that easily. It wouldn't give up because it couldn't. It was important, it was _deadly_ important, because they knew his secret. They knew what he was, and _oh god_ , how is he still alive? How is his brain even firing, what miracle conspired to give him this chance. _Being saved does that_. M16 knowing Owen's sexuality was bad enough already, but they knew more than that. Not just Owen's secret, but _their_ secret. The one they promised to take to their graves. The one so deadly that no one, not even their families, could know. What could they do to Curt? God, what _would_ they do to Curt?His fear was bubbling now, forming into something far colder and harder, as the million injustices were piled upon his shoulders. They couldn't touch Curt. He wouldn't let them. He wouldn't-

There were arms, wrapped around his chest. It took him a moment to register that those arms were attached to Curt Mega, and that he was speaking. The words didn't matter to him, though. Owen became suddenly aware, of the shortness of his breath, of his hair falling in his face. Curt was still talking. _Probably trying to calm me down._

"-doesn't matter about our agencies, we can go into hiding together." Owen met his eyes, breath slowly returning to normal. Curt was swiftly pulled into a kiss, and not a half-assed one at that. He threw himself into it without hesitation, smoothing back Owens hair for him. It was a while before they broke apart, but even then, they refused to stop hugging.

"Thank you for being here," Owen huffed, forever thankful that he had Curt. What kind of state would he be in without this man?

Curt's arms were slowly tightening around Owen. "Always will be."

As sweet as Curt was, he tended to underestimate his strength. "Curt, dearest, love of my life, I know you're concerned, but I would like my ribs to stay intact."

"Oh! Sorry."

The hug was swiftly broken off. Curt rolled his shoulders, eyeing the room carefully. "Now, what do you say to breaking outta this joint?"

***

"How many bullets, love?"

Curt checked the gun they'd managed to grab before they left. He grimaced. "Two."

Owen sighed. "Better make them count."

They traded weapons; Owen, the better shot, gained possession of the firearm, while Curt got the knife. Owen shoved the gun into his waistband, looking over to see Curt spinning the knife around like a circus trick. Upon seeing Owen's expression, the knife was shamefully stowed away.

The Chimera compound was skilfully hidden in a dense forest, as it turned out. Owen still didn't know which country they were in, but they knew enough languages to scrape by. Now they just had to get out of these damned woods. Always easier said than done.

He had faith, however; Owen Carvour and Curt Mega were great agents, after all.

The compound was close to vanishing behind the trees when Owen turned around. He'd heard something cross the leaf-strewn ground, and he had a feeling it wasn't a woodland creature. "I'll cover," Curt said, understanding. Owen nodded to him, stalking towards the area carefully. Nothing of note. Great. He pointed the gun at the source of the noise. Still nothing. Even more brilliant. Owen shook his head, attempting to clear the fog from his mind. _What am I doing? There's no-one else out here, I need to get back to Curt and-_

A yell. The sound of feet sliding across leaves. Cursing himself, Owen ran back the way he came. The carefully-stored panic was slowly rising in him again. Shit shit shit _shit shit shit shit_ -

Curt was in a furious fist-fight with someone. He was trying to push them off desperately, one arm sneaking for the knife, but he wasn't getting an opening. His head rocked back as the attacker smacked him, fingers temporarily falling limp.

Owen was running at him before he could think. This fucker thought he could sneak up on _him_ , could hurt Curt, and-

 _You are holding a_ gun, _Owen._

He aimed the barrel at the back of the guy’s head, shot lined up for a kill. _Sorry to splatter brains all over you, my dear-_

The man heard him, turned around. He saw the face, knew the name. John Harker. M16. Bought the guy coffee on his first day, kind of became friends. Now he looked at Owen with disgust.

Owen’s finger was a split second from pulling the trigger when John used his own gun to club his arm. He cried out in pain, the shot missing him and hitting the tree behind Curt. _Curt. He was trying to make me shoot Curt._

A visceral snarl erupted from Owen’s throat.

His gun was shot out of his hand, spinning off into the forest. He couldn’t give less of a fuck. Harker was doing this on purpose. M16 was doing this on purpose. His hands were on Harker’s neck in an instant, fingers tightening cruelly. _You don’t get that satisfaction, you bitc-_

His thoughts were cut off as Harker, holding his gun by the muzzle, whipped him right across the face. Lights danced before his eyes, and his body went limp.

Everything blurred. He was floating in a simple abyss. He felt peaceful.

Somewhere else, he heard his name.

He frowned. He knew that voice.

_Curt._

Harker. The gun. Curt was in trouble.

Owen winced, forcing his vision to clear. Curt was wrestling a gun from Harker’s grip. Which one, he didn’t know. He started crawling towards them shakily. He didn’t care if it would take him a little while to recover, he’d bite Harker’s legs off if given the chance.

Something whizzed past Owen’s ear, throwing up the leaves and dirt in a haze. “Don’t move!”

Harker had the gun, which he turned on Curt. Owen forced himself to stand up. Forced himself to start running. He could manage a zombie walk. That wasn’t good enough.

The gun clicked empty. It was Owens, as it turned out.

Curt tried the knife, blocked easily by Harker. He was still woozy from being hit. Hell, they both were. Owen kept stumbling towards them, determined to end this _now_.

He cried out as the knife was plunged into Curt’s shoulder.

The wrestling match switched; the fight was now to keep the blade inside Curt. The moment it left, he would start bleeding.

When he started bleeding, the timer would begin.

_I won’t lose you._

Owen jabbed Harker between his shoulder blades with as much venom as he could muster. Harker’s arms shot back instinctively, giving Owen an avenue to grab them, throwing Harker into a nearby tree with less force than he’d have liked.

Owen started running to Curt; Harker had taken the knife with him, blood already seeping out of Curt’s wound.

He cried out as his head was yanked back; Harker had grabbed his hair. _This is why I keep it slicked back_.

Harker pulled him into a headlock, arms steadily constricting Owen's breath. Bad decision, really. Owen had a height advantage. He straightened up, bringing Harker to his toes.

"Why?" he hissed, vainly continuing to try and choke him out.

"You think I had a choice?"

Owen ran backwards into a tree, dislodging his attacker. Harker swiped the knife across Owen's leg, causing him to fall over. The cut was deep enough to cloud his vision.

He heard another gunshot, accompanied by Curt's muffled shout of pain. Owen forced himself to stand again. He forgot that Harker also had a gun.

Curt had a bullet wound in his side along with the stab wound in his shoulder. He didn't hide any of the hatred in his gaze, despite Harker having a gun pressed to his temple. Owen could see he was weakening by the minute. He would almost certainly fall is Harker let go of him.

"Move and i'll kill him!" Harker screamed. Owen was unarmed. He couldn't do anything except watch.

"John," he pleaded, "What the hell are you doing?"

"You expect me to listen to you?! After what you..."

Harker shook his head. "I could expect it from the American, I knew he was off from the moment you were partnered with him."

He gave Owen an almost frantic look. "Not you, Owen. You couldn't have. Not with another man."

His panic was rising again. It was straining against the bars he'd locked it behind. Owen stared Harker directly in the face. "I did."

Harker looked at him. Then looked at Curt. He gagged, eyes falling to the ground.

The bars in his mind were breaking.

"How could you! Do you know how _wrong_ that is?! It's disgusting, your fucking disgusting!"

Owen's body stopped shaking.

"How many! How many secrets did you two sell for your own good?! How many missions have you thrown for _him_! Traitor!"

Fuck it.

"I'M THE TRAITOR?!" Owen screeched, causing Harker to flinch. " _I_ dedicated my life to this. _I_ chose to become a killer, a spy, a liar, to help others! _I_ have done _nothing_ but my best! But the MOMENT, the VERY MOMENT you decide that MY personal life offends YOU, I'M the bad guy! THE MINUTE I'M NOT EXACTLY WHO YOU WANT ME TO BE, I DESERVE TO BE BLOWN UP AND LEFT FOR DEAD!"

Harker opened his mouth too retort. "NO. You don't get a say in this. You don't get ANY say in this."

"How about this, Owen? Maybe if I shoot your consort here, you'll shut up."

Owen froze. Curt's eyes were on his. "You would be an idiot to try, _love_ ," Owen hissed. Harker shuddered at the pet name, causing Curt to smile.

 _You got this_ , he mouthed to Owen. He couldn't force the grin down. God, Curt was such an idiot sometimes, but god be damned if Owen didn't love him for it.

"What do you have to gain from him? _Sex?!_ " Harker blabbed idiotically.

The venom in his voice frightened himself. "I love him."

He fired a kick at the loose ground beneath him, sending a flurry of dirt and leaves into Harker's face. He cursed, letting go of Curt. Owen ran forward, catching him before he hit the ground. He ripped off part of his sleeve without hesitation, setting to work on a makeshift tourniquet. "Nice one," Curt quipped, wincing at the pain. Owen carefully cupped his face, turning it towards his own. "Don't look, love, I know how your are with your own blood. I don't want vomit all over me."

Curt gave a drunk smile. The blood loss was getting to him. "Yeah, you're a much prettier sight than anything here."

Owen chuckled lightly, moving on to the gunshot wound. The bullet was still in him, and Owen didn't have time to get it out. As he ripped off more sleeve to bandage the wound, he heard the cocking of a gun. He looked up to see Harker pointing the barrel directly between Owen's eyes.

"Well, if you insist so badly," he hissed, "you get to die with him."

The gunshot that came next wasn't from the gun pointed at Owen. Harker screamed as a bullet ploughed straight through his shoulder. Owen winced. Having a bullet inside you was always preferable to having an exit wound twice the size of the entrance wound. Harker fell to the ground, revealing the shooter; the Man with No Name.

"The alarm was triggered, we came as soon as we could," he explained hurriedly, tucking the gun back into its holster. It was then that the image of Owen cradling Curt seemed to finally sink in.

When the Man spoke, his voice was quiet. The type of quiet Owen knew only too well. The type of quiet that can only be achieved when one's inner emotions are exploding like an enemy Russian base. The type of quiet that directly contradicted what one was feeling inside. Owen's own righteous fury rose to the occasion; someone else knew of the injustice that had been committed against them.

"He did this?"

Owen, at a loss for words, simply nodded. "Can you help him?" Owen asked, feeling his voice breaking. The weight of the situation was finally crashing down on him; just an hour ago they'd been fine, and now Curt was at death's door. _Again_.

The Man took one look at Curt. He nodded.

It was a little while before others arrived. Harker was paid no attention, left to shout in pain and bleed all over the ground. No one cared.

_Good._

"Get Mega to the Medical Wing, stat!" the Man shouted, gesturing to the Agents around him. Owen had his face in his hands, breathing out the adrenaline from the fight.

"Carvour is to be kept with him at all times! They've been through an ordeal, they should be allowed to see each other."

Owen shot upright, staring at the Man with No Name. He was completely serious.

 _Thank you_ , he mouthed.

Owen stood up to follow the others back to the compound when the Man put a hand on his shoulder. Owen gave him a quizzical look.

"Do you want to do the honours?" he asked, offering him a gun. Owen stared at Harker's twitching form. He was still conscious, though barely.

He took the gun from the Man's hand. Swung it at Harker's face. His nose collapsed with a _crack_. Hit him again. This time, blood lazily trickled from under his eye.

Owen pressed the barrel against Harker's forehead. "Since you insisted so badly," Owen mocked, "now you get to die."

The bullet ploughed through his skull, brains exploding across the ground like spilled paint. It wasn't beautiful, it wasn't great, it wasn't fun. It was bloody horrifying, borderline disgusting and it took all of Owen's training not to make him physically sick.

None of that was what mattered, though. His first kill after being betrayed and abandoned by the people he dedicated his life too.

It was _satisfying_.

Owen turned and walked back towards the compound, not a care in the world.


	7. Agent 2.0

Curt Mega was waking up in a hospital bed. Again.

"God, i'm really making a habit of this."

He sat up, wincing at the stitches in his shoulder. Being stabbed was decidedly _not_ fun.

Curt frowned. Owen hadn't said anything yet. He turned to his side, discovering a very asleep Owen Carvour slumped in the chair beside him. Curt suffused a laugh. Owen was somehow managing to look great, despite trying to curl his lanky form into a small metal armchair. Curt noticed a faint redness to his eyes, stomach dropping slightly. He knew Owen didn't do well with seeing Curt injured, and it wouldn't have been the first time he'd seen Owen on the edge of tears because of it. _I'm sorry_ , he sighed quietly.

From the looks of it, Owen definitely needed his beauty rest, so Curt settled back down and tried to get some of his own.

***

About an hour of sleepless boredom later, Owen stirred. Curt stilled himself for the great reveal. Owen rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand, hair falling in his face. His gaze fell on Curt as he subconsciously slicked it back again. Curt opened his eyes properly, letting Owen see he was awake.

The stress on his face immediately drained away, replaced with a small smile. "It's about time, my dear."

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

Owen was hugging him instantly. Curt could do nothing but melt, god why did this Brit have such control over his heart? Curt looked down to see his blood on the sheets, _his_ blood, that was supposed to be inside him for god's sake. He gagged slightly, leaning further into Owen. _A queasy spy. Go figure_.

"One man," Owen huffed, "one man was enough to bring us back here so soon."

"We were off our game, Owen. In retrospect, maybe sneaking out of here just after we heard a devastating bit of news and were still healing from the fall wasn't the best idea."

Owen chuckled slightly at that. Curt noticed his face fall slightly. "What is it, old boy?"

Owen sighed. "I feel like... we should stay here. At least, for a little while."

Curt pulled back to get a good look at him. Owen refused to meet his gaze, guilt painted sloppily all over his face. "Why?"

Owen finally met his gaze. "M16... well, you saw what they did. Not even 5 minutes, and you were stabbed, shot and held hostage. I can't _fucking_ believe them! Is our secret really that bad? Is there something really wrong with us!? Well according to them, EVERYTHING is wrong with us!"

Owen was pissed. More pissed than usual. His practically spat the words, viper's venom flying from his mouth. Like he couldn't get them out fast enough.

"He hurt you, Curt. They hurt you. They hurt _us_."

His eyes travelled back to the floor. "Our... _acquaintance,_ the nameless fellow, he... seemed to care. At least, he let me get revenge. He specifically ordered the staff that I should never be removed from you unwillingly."

Curt's voice came out quieter than he intended. "You killed Harker?"

Nothing.

Then, a small nod.

...

Owen looked up in surprised confusion when Curt grabbed his hands. He made a point to look into Owen's eyes.

"I'm fine with us staying. You're right, our agencies screwed us over, and this place hasn't actually done anything to hurt us. As for Harker..."

Curt let out a smile.

"I think we both know he deserved it."

***

The Man with No Name was thrilled. Never, in his long existence, would he have believed the A.S.S. would make such a colossal mistake. Luck truly was on his side.

Torture is the easy way, he always said. Fear will only keep someone loyal if there's no better option. The moment there's a bigger fish, or a brave protector, you can consider them gone. _Trust_ , however, was much sturdier, and simpler than most people made it out to be.

For example, if you're betrayed and abandoned by one thing, and someone offers payback... well, he'd soon see.

***

Curt rolled his shoulder happily. "No scars," he declared.

Owen rolled his eyes at him. "Why do I think this will only worsen things?"

"I'm invincible!"

"You're a loony, love."

Now it was Curt's turn to roll his eyes. “You’re the one who fell in love with me, Carvour.”

Owen gave him a scrutinising look. “Was I though?”

Curt smacked his arm playfully. “ _You_ kissed _me_ in Toulouse, Owen. You could at least accept that you’re hopelessly in love with me.”

”Darling, how could I have not kissed you? The way you were blushing was simply adorable, you were so scared to make the first move!”

Owen chuckled as Curt dashed to hide his increasingly red face from view. He felt Owen behind him, gently wrapping his arms around Curt’s chest. “We don’t have to hide anymore.”

He pressed a kiss to Curt’s head. He smiled and collapsed gently into Owen. This, he would soon discover, was a mistake.

Owen lightly kissed Curt behind the ear, causing him to flinch instinctively. He continued, pressing kisses along his neck for good measure. Curt was trying his best to be angry through suppressing his laughter.

”Carvour - you - know - i’m - ticklish - there - you - bastard-“

Owen finally stopped, opting instead to start ‘fixing’ Curt’s hair (there wasn’t much room to work with, as Curt had already styled his hair to perfection).

”You do realise that I’m supposed to do errands, right?” Curt hummed, already melting from Owen’s affection. “Yes, well, I figure the prestigious Curt Mega would want to make a grand entrance.”

Curt shrugged. “Yeah, you’re right.”

”Done.”

Curt spun to say goodbye to him, giving Owen an opportunity to press a final kiss to his forehead.

”You’re perfect, love.”

”You’re going to dote on me for a while because of that Harker thing, aren’t you?”

”Quite possibly.”

Owen waved him away nonchalantly. “Go on, dear, don’t let me keep you. Go retrieve your ever-important file.”

Curt set off into the relatively unfamiliar compound, carefully going over the file location in his head. Apparently it was important for ‘Birdies’, whatever that was. Probably some strange Chimera initiative. On the way he passed the lesbian with platinum hair from before; Lilith, her name was. Her partner Eve was executed for ‘betraying’ her agency, and Lilith was picked up a few weeks later. She was rather sweet; she always adopted a look of reminiscence when she saw him and Owen together.

He spent a little while fishing through the filing cabinets for the correct folder. It was marked as **A.S.S. - ARCHER (OVERVIEW)**. Based on the date, it was compiled fairly recently.

Owen was gone when he returned. Of course, he had things to do as well. It was a while before the folder was needed, and Curt had zero idea where the Man with No Name was.

Patience had never been his strong suit, and a folder full of new information about his former agency was right in his lap.

Curt didn’t know what he expected; a notice of his death, maybe something about mourning, or a funeral. What he found was far worse.

The first thing was inconspicuous enough. A document describing a new agent by the name of Ray Archer. He’d seen the guy, when he was a trainee. Attractive, headstrong, reminded Curt of himself a bit.

Next was a photo. A photo of Curt’s old desk, now occupied by Archer. He frowned. _That’s odd_. Then, it was him talking to Cynthia. Actually, several of him talking to Cynthia. The contents of Curt’s stomach swirled. The look on Cynthia’s face, the palpable air between them, her parental rage and his terror... all of it was nostalgic. Too nostalgic. Cynthia was treating this guy the exact same way she’d treated Curt. Fuck, there’s even a photo of her pulling the _exact same grenade trick_ she’d pulled on Curt before the Russia mission.

Then the photos of Barb.

She was laughing at his joke. The twinkle in her eyes, the hint of red on her cheeks...

It was like Curt had never existed. This guy, this _Archer_ , had completely replaced him. The man Curt should’ve been. A young, attractive womaniser who filled the hole Curt had left seamlessly.

The notice is what tore it. All of his gadgets, his desk, his contacts, _all of it_ went to Archer.

_Fucking Archer._

Curt curled up on the bed, contents of the folder laying sprawled and forgotten.

The door opened, and everything stopped. Then, softly, Owens voice;

”What happened?”

Curt couldn’t hold it in any longer. “They replaced me,” he stuttered, voice cracking.

”They fucking replaced me, Owen! With this lady-killer creep!”

Curt hated it, hated how childish he sounded, hated the whine that dripped from his words.

Owen was by his side instantly, sifting through the folder’s scattered contents. His scowl deepened with every image. Curt registered the sound of the re-organised folder being put down before Owen’s arms were around him.

Curt collapsed into him, hugging Owen back desperately. He was dejected; his own friends hadn’t even cared enough to mourn him. He was happier than ever to have Owen with him, to have someone to talk to, someone who understood.

”Owen?”

”Hmm?”

”I have an offer for you.”

Owen looked up at him. “And that is?”

”We never leave each other. No matter how bad the situation, no matter what might happen to either of us.”

Curt hardened his gaze. “And if someone tries to kill one of us, we fight it. No matter what.”

Owen tilted his head up, kissing Curt gently. “You’ve got a deal, love.”

They sat there for a while. Owen was seemingly trying to make up for this revelation by doting on him harder than he already was. Curt didn’t mind. If he was being honest, he kind of liked it.

***  
  


”I was wondering if you two would be interested in hearing our plans?”

”...depends on what you want to do.”

”Why, that’s simple, gentlemen.”

A smile

”We want to take down your agencies from the inside out.”

...

_Let’s give them what they deserve._


	8. Intermission: Four Long Years

Cynthia Houston wasn't one to mourn. She'd made a distinct effort to seperate her personal and professional lives, for everyone's sake.

This day, though, is one she knew she'd never forget.

The funeral was small. Mega didn't have much of an extended family, as it turned out. Cynthia's eyes weren't on them. Ms Mega was crying softly into her handkerchief. From what Cynthia knew of the woman, she would've expected hysterics. Loud sobs that rocked the earth, utterly inconsolable and barely aware of the people around her. What she saw was far different. Ms Mega was... quiet. Subdued, almost. Like something had snatched away her energy, her willpower, and left the husk to cry on this offensively sunny day. It unsettled Cynthia to the greatest extent to see such a boisterous woman degraded like this.

Barb was nearly as bad. The poor thing had being crying since the news came in. When they brought back Curt's broken watch (the only thing left of him, by the looks of it), she had completely broken down. Even now, her sniffles echoed through the graveyard as tears tracked down her red face. Cynthia had done her best to comfort her, but yet again, that all-important line between her two lives was in jeopardy.

Cynthia had screamed into Susan's shoulder for a solid minute after she'd heard. She just hoped that whatever was left of Carvour's family was doing better than them.

***

_"We need new identities."_

_Curt's head was resting gently on Owen's chest. They were curled up on the couch in their room, the plans from the meeting swirling in their heads. A system that kept no secrets..._

_Owen had been bathing Curt in as much affection as he could muster, if only to re-assure him that someone still cared. Curt let him. Owen was currently running his fingers through Curt's hair, his other arm keeping him as close as possible. Curt had laid his arms across Owen's chest, smiling contently._

_"Oh, definitely. I think we need some punchy-titles, too. Like the Man with No Name. It's mysterious, it's enigmatic, and it has flavour."_

_"Titles, eh?" Owen hummed, gently resting his head on Curt's. "I've got a few in mind already."_

_"Oh, yeah? Something like 'the Deadly Duo', or 'the Death-Dealers', or whatever."_

_Owen laughed at that._

_"God, I forgot how cheesy you could be, love. Besides, it's probably better to have seperate titles. That way we'd look like free-lancers that worked together on occasion."_

_"Yeah, yeah, you're right. It was a good idea, though."_

_Curt buried himself further into Owen's chest, causing Owen to tighten his hold on him._

_"What accents d'you think will throw them off?"_

***

Ray Archer was a newbie. He could barely stop himself from freaking out whenever someone made eye-contact with him. _This is going to be tougher than I thought_ , he mused as he sat in Director Houston's office. He was actively trying not to bounce his leg under the table. He knew Houston would _not_ appreciate that.

"Listen here, Archer!" Houston barked. He winced, which his survival instincts told him was a bad idea. "I get that you were hired amidst a tragedy. I get that you got all of Mega's shit. None of that means that you're replacing him, you dumb fuck!"

Houston sighed. "I was _hoping_ to partner you up with him, maybe seeing such a cocky fuck-up in action would kick some sense into you. But now, I've got ANOTHER reckless dipshit on my hands!"

She stuck her cigarette in Ray's face, causing him to lean back instinctively. "All of us were affected by Mega, sunshine," she hissed, "now I expect you not to get yourself killed like he did! I do _not_ need a second Agent dying because he thought common sense was below him, understand!?"

Ray nodded frantically, not trusting words to obey him. "Good, now get out of my office before that grenade in your chair explodes."

His panic rose as he flung the chair into a secluded corner, where the explosion would only leave a soot stain. Ray bolted from the office, already screwing up his face as he waited for the _boom_.

No sound came.

"First time, huh?" and older woman asked him, stirring her coffee absent-mindedly.

Ray collapsed into his chair with a _huff_. Curt Mega was his idol, and now the guy had left him everything after his death. He had no idea where to begin.

***

_Owen fiddled with the back of his mask absentmindedly. The plastic stuck to his skin unpleasantly, and he was sure the thing would stink of sweat after a day's use. In order to hide his identity, though, it was worth the inconvenience._

_He examined his new face in the mirror. Tougher than his old one, to be sure. Much shorter hair. It even managed to hide the slight crook in his jaw. Owen pulled various expressions at himself, marvelling at the mask's flexibility._ I guess when it's basically grafted to my skin, It would be flexible.

_"You look weird."_

_The American's voice came from besides him. "You're not much better yourself," he quipped._

_Curt's mask took the appearance of a bald, scarred man with a god-awful beard. Curt winced as he touched it, barbs of wiry 'hair' catching on his fingers. "You look like a Dmitri," he mused slightly. It was strange, hearing his lover's voice come from a different mouth._

_Owen was aghast, gasping at Curt dramatically. "Dmitri?! That simply will_ not _do, love."_

_Curt examined him more closely. "You could pull off a 'Joe'," he decided._

_Owen tilted his head at that. "You know, I think I agree with you on that front." He poked Curt jokingly. "If anyone could do Dmitri, it'd be you."_

_"What!?"_

_"All those scars, that horrible beard, ugh... it all works in your favour."_

_Curt crossed his arms in a huff. "Well, excuse me for not taking to it!"_

_Owen smiled mockingly at him, putting on his best cockney accent. "What'cha lookin' at, love?"_

_Curt did a double-take. "God, that... wow. That was_ intimidating _. If I didn't know any better, I'd be terrified right now."_

_Owen chuckled at him. "Well, let's hear yours, then."_

***

Ray tightened the handcuffs carefully. The Russian spy hissed vague insults at him as he did so.

"Okay- _okay_ , I just knock him out, then drag him back to the safehouse, then contact Barbara! Simple, right? It's simple!" Ray muttered to himself. Even after nearly a year of spying, he still needed to psyche himself us. Despite what Cynthia had first thought, he wasn't reckless. More of a nervous wreck who got sloppy under pressure (which is why he hadn't gone undercover since London. That blew up in his face spectacularly).

"Are you talking to yourself?" the Russian scoffed, raising an eyebrow at him. "You were really scrambling to find _anyone_ after Mega died, weren't you?"

Ray pistol-whipped the guy, knocking him out cold. He winced at the bruise forming on the back of his head as he fumbled to get his gun back in the holster. "Sorry!" he whimpered, slumping the guy over his shoulders. He felt his mind begin to tumble.

It was always Mega. Whenever he did something, no matter the act, it was ' _Just like Mega_ ', or _'everything's gone downhill since Mega_ ', or some other excuse. Ray was sick of it. He knew that Mega was a great guy, a perfect spy, hell, he couldn't wait to meet him as a trainee. But now everyone looked to him like he was the new Agent Curt Mega, when he wasn't. he was Ray Archer, an anxiety-ridden man who overthought every assignment so he didn't mess up, only to freeze when confronted properly. He wasn't the headstrong, confident spy Mega was.

The watch on his wrist started hissing static. "Archer?" came Barbara's voice. She was always calling him like this. He couldn't really blame her, though. She was trying to contact Mega the day he died. Of course she was jumpy. "I'm here, Barbara," he replied, "I've got the target. Heading back now."

***

_The Hitman watched as his target's head suddenly grew a nice red hole in its centre, causing her to fall to the ground. "Director down," he muttered into his comms, moving to watch the second woman (only 18, and already a figurehead of an enemy agency)._

_"I've got this one," a familiar voice hissed quietly._

_The woman bent down to re-organise the papers that would expose Chimera's little network. After a year of dirty deals and careful planning, she was foolish to believe they wouldn't come after her. With her attention on the evidence, she failed to notice the Deadliest Man Alive enter the room behind her. He had only recently gained that title, though. He only beat the previous holder by 3 kills (one of them being the previous guy), all of which happened a matter of weeks ago. He was really quite good at espionage, made much less of a mess than his counterpart._

_The knife was sliding across her throat before she knew what was happening. The body crumpled to the floor soundlessly, and he saw the Deadliest Man raise his hand to his face._

_"That's all of 'em," the Cockney accent spilled out of his ring. The Hitman smiled. "I'll be down in a sec to search for backups, we'll get through it twice as fast that way."_

_"Of course, love."_

_The Hitman packed up the rifle carefully, slinging the bag around his shoulder as he descended the pristine steps to the Deadliest Man. They_ _wordlessly sifted through the rooms, finding multiple copies of the evidence._

_"What do you say," the Hitman mused, fishing through his bag, "to blowing up this joint?"_

_The Deadliest Man smirked, meeting his eyes. "I'm not above a dramatic exit."_

_"Brilliant,' declared the Hitman, passing him a Molotov Cocktail._

_At this, they both chuckled. A few minutes and some dramatic warming up later, they were driving away from the burning building. "Another job well done," the Hitman mused, switching back to his usual American accent._

_He smiled as his partner's posh voice responded. "We make quite a team, don't we, dear?"_

***

Ray hated being undercover more than anything. At least, that's what he'd decided as soon as his mark started hitting on him.

Sure, she was attractive. At least, every other man she'd talked too that night seemed to think so. Ray’s goal wasn’t _her_ , exactly, just the info she had. So when she started talking to him out of nowhere, he assumed that this would be the easiest job he’d ever taken.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

He was always oblivious when it came to flirting. He didn’t know what things had what connotations, and flirtatious tones were often confused for friendly ones. That’s probably how he ended up in this situation in the first place.

Ray had no idea what to do. He couldn’t tell her that he didn’t _do_ sex without her balking. It wasn’t as if he hated the idea of it, just... didn’t want it. So once Ray cottoned on to her implications, his panic took over.

They were back at her hotel room. Ray was pacing nervously around the carpet as she went into the bathroom for some reason or another. The minute she left, he darted around the place, practically turning the room inside-out. He didn't want to spend another minute stuck here with her.

Finally, _finally_ , he found the encrypted message stored in a secret compartment on the underside of the drawers. Ray flung himself out the window haphazardly, scaling down the building both too fast and too slow.

"Barbara! I got it!"

"Oh, brilliant! Y'know, a lot of agents would've called in tomorrow to say they found it..."

Ray winced at the implications. God, how many womanisers did the government hire?

"Cynthia would hate them for stalling."

***

_The apartment was quiet. Rain pattered gently against the windows, drowned out slightly by the music lazily pouring from the spinning record in the corner. Curt had cleared the centre of the room, leaving only the scratchy rug that really needed replacing. They were gently swaying to the music, savouring their last few days in London before the Man contacted them again._

_Owen had his arms lazily wrapped around Curt's chest, face buried in his shoulder. Curt hated it. Hated the sickly, pale pallor Owen's skin had acquired. Hated the weakness that gripped his form. Hated how Owen was slowly growing thinner. He thought being poisoned was the worst way to die, but having his lover be poisoned was a far worse sight to behold._

_Owen seemed to know what he was thinking. "I'll survive," he muttered, voice far to quiet and shaky for Curt's liking. "I know, I know, it's just... I hate seeing you like this," Curt responded, running his hand through Owen's hair._

_"Well, poison does have its after-affects, love," Owen croaked, before being cut off by a coughing fit that shook his frail form. Curt held him tighter. "You can't expect me to be happy that my boyfriend almost died."_

_"Boyfriend...," Owen mused, "I like the sound of that."_

_Curt smiled cheekily. "Oh yeah? What about Fiancé? Or..._ Husband _!"_

_At that last word, Curt spun round faster than even he thought he could move. Owen chuckled lightly, lifting his head up to meet Curt's gaze. The dark bags under his eyes caused Curt's already damaged heart to constrict further. "It'll never be legal, my dear."_

_Curt scoffed. "Owen, we are_ far _beyond legal at this point. I mean, we've already got the rings, right?" he declared, tapping the finger with his communicator on Owen's hip. Owen re-buried his face into Curt's neck, arms tightening like a vice around his chest. He got the feeling Owen was holding onto him for dear life. His stomach turned. He never wanted Owen to be this weak again._

_"They'll never tear us apart."_

_"Never, Owen. I promise."_

***

"You absolute fucking screw-up!"

Ray still winced when Cynthia yelled at him. Probably should've gotten used to it by now.

"Y'know what, Archer? After nearly four years of successes, I expected you to be able to handle a simple espionage mission. Was that too much to fucking ask?"

"Listen, Cynthia, I-"

"I DON'T want to hear it! We are on the edge of fucking _war_ , and you go and pull this little stunt?! Are you shitting me?!"

She puffed out cigar smoke angrily. With the lit fire on the end of the cigar, her terrifying eyes and flared nostrils, Ray could've sworn he was facing down a dragon.

"You're off the mission, Archer. Take a break, maybe re-consider what colossal line of fuck-ups led to this moment. I'll contact you when I feel like it."

Ray opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it, slinking out of Cynthia's office dejectedly.

***

_Owen really shouldn't have been as cold as he was. Lying in bed, Curt curled up next to him, windows closed to preserve the heat. Still, he was cold. Unbearably freezing. Perhaps it had something to do with the yawning pit in his stomach._

_Curt stirred, opening his bleary eyes to take in the still very-awake Owen. His expression must have carried some of the icy feelings plaguing him. "You alright?" Curt whispered, draping his arm casually across Owen's chest. Its warmth failed to penetrate the frosty blanket that covered Owen's form. Owen let out a sigh, marvelling at how his breath didn't show amidst all this cool air._

_"That girl," he muttered quietly. He didn't want to admit this to himself; admit that he knew, that he'd been counting,_ waiting _for this day to come. "She was the one thousandth."_

_Owen rolled over to see the sympathy in Curt's eyes. He knew what Owen meant. He pulled Owen close to him, trying to comfort him. Owen was ashamed to say that it had a small effect on him, a spark of fire in this cold room._

_"We really did die that night, didn't we?"_

_Owen closed his eyes, folding himself around Curt. "I think so, love."_

_"Then we did it together."_

_Owen allowed a small smile to alight his face as Curt's warmth spread through the cold air surrounding him._

_"And now, we can avenge our deaths."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we are officially halfway through the story! When I originally came up with this idea, the story was going to be split into two halves: the direct aftermath of the fall/Chimera being a bitch, and the events of the musical with a supervillain power-couple at the centre. I've recently gone into self-isolation, meaning that I have way more time on my hands for writing purposes!  
> Also yes, Ray Archer is taking the place of Curt Mega from the original musical, and is technically a main character from this point onwards. I hope you like him!
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with this fic for so long, and for the kudos & comments! It's always great to check back on this and see new comments of people in pain from what Chimera is doing to the boys :D  
> I hope that what happens next is just as enjoyable!


	9. Somebody's Gotta Do It

"I hear the salty fish from down under is simply to die for."

"Let me tell the chef that he must fry more."

Ray let out a little sigh as he relaxed into his chair. "You're good, I almost got assaulted trying to find you," Ray told him. The waiter (the Informant, as he'd been told) nodded back to him. "I take pride in my job, as do you, I expect."

"Well, i'm not always perfect," he winced, remembering why Cynthia had put him on hold in the first place.

The Informant smiled at him, a slight hint of mockery in his expression. "Well, this one should be simple enough."

He gently placed a 'menu' in front of Ray, and walked away.

"Oh, I almost forgot, you need a refill of water!" the Informant shouted in his french accent, tossing a gun at Ray haphazardly as he shoo-ed out the other patrons. Ray cursed, fumbling with the gun for a while.

_Why did I choose this career?_

***

Owen opened his eyes groggily. The rays of morning light were peeking through the curtains of their Budapest safehouse. He stifled a groan as he remembered what he'd have to do today. Weapon deals were almost always the dullest part of his job, and he'd have to suck up to a Nazi on top of that. God, he couldn't wait till the back-stabbing part came around.

A sleepy groan alerted him to the other presence in the bed. Curt had buried himself into Owen's chest, snoring contently. Owen couldn't help but melt at the sight. What did he ever do to deserve this man? He began to prop himself up, hoping to double-check the equipment for the meeting with Sergio. At this sudden prospect of losing his pillow, Curt managed to wind himself tighter around Owen, permanently constricting his movement. Owen sighed. Of course he was still clingy.

There were certain aspects, certain downfalls that came with their job. They were aware of this, obviously, and had accepted the consequences when they were hired. They knew that being exposed to near-death situations on a weekly basis wasn't the best for their stress levels. Nightmares came and went before the accident, but over the last four years? They had only increased in intensity. Last night was a Curt night. Owen could still see the remainders of tears on his face. The sight of it unsettled him to no extent.

 _Well, it looks like I'm not leaving for a little while_. Owen sighed, arms gently wrapping around his partner to keep him close. "You can really be adorable, you know," he muttered to the still-very-asleep Curt, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Curt finally woke up as Owen was playing with his hair. He hadn't even noticed until a small "Owen?" caused him to meet Curt's eyes. "Morning, love," he smiled, gently nuzzling his technically-not-husband-but-it-still-counts into consciousness. "How long?" Curt yawned, still resolutely refusing to let Owen go.

"We have about 5 minutes, at a stretch."

"Ugh. Why can we never get a moment to ourselves?"

Owen managed to pry one of Curt's arms off, moving to get up. Curt let out a tiny whine. He smiled as the intended affect took place; Owen's hand was cupping his face gently, expression soft and loving.

"I just want to be with you," Curt whispered (he hoped romantically, but Owen's face told him otherwise).

He pulled Owen into a kiss; a kiss that was easily reciprocated. Owen rolled his eyes at Curt's antics, moving to get up again. This time, Curt looped his arms around Owen's neck, hoping to pull Owen back down.

Instead, he was lifted out of bed succinctly.

"Well, that solves that problem," Owen chittered happily, winking at Curt as he dashed into the kitchen.

"Carvour, you ass!" he called after him, hearing a laugh echoing from down the hall.

Owen was stirring the sugar into Curt's coffee when he felt Curt kiss the sensitive spot on his neck, causing him to flinch. Owen set down the coffee, pulling Curt into a french kiss as payback. He laughed at the glowing red of his partner's cheeks when he pulled away. Curt righted himself, snatching the coffee from the counter before Owen could try anything else.

"I've checked everything with Sergio, we should be fine for today."

"Everything good with the Russian?" Curt asked casually, sipping the piping hot drink.

"Of course. Hopefully that American Agent is a no-show, then we won't even need her."

Curt leaned against Owen, swiftly ruffling his already dishevelled hair. "You know we can't do this around-"

"The Nazi, I know, Owen. He's a fucking _Nazi_. I'm just getting in all the love I can."

Owen raised an eyebrow. "Speaking of which, we haven't discussed the dear Baron's death yet. First come first served, I was thinking."

Curt shrugged. "I'm fine with that. When it comes to Archer..."

 _The bastard that replaced you, I'm familiar._ "Oh, he's all yours. I may torture him if I get to him first, but you can do whatever the hell you want afterwards."

"Good," Curt nodded, a twisted smile on his face.

"Good."

***

The Deadliest Man Alive, Hitman and company were lounging in the secluded alleyway. The Deadliest Man was casually sharpening his gun, flashing his machete at the increasingly amused Hitman. The 'and company', being low-level Chimera agents themselves, knew about their relationship. Like the rest of Chimera, they didn't care. It was bliss, to have someone not be offended by their existence. They were mostly salty because they didn't have enough clearance to actually know the people they were stuck in this alley with. At least, that's what the Hitman assumed.

"This don't feel right," one said.

"Yeah, wasn't he supposed to be here by now?" replied the other.

"Sergio _will_ be here," the Deadliest Man scolded.

"That is, if he cares about living," the Hitman finished, deep Irish accent sending shivers down the henchmen's spines.

Their heads were turned in unison as the backdoor of a nearby pub opened up, revealed a tall man wearing a green shirt and a brimmed straw hat. "I didn't know you had a brother," the Hitman whispered to his partner, earning him a playful elbow to the ribs. The Deadliest Man couldn't deny it, though; Sergio Santos bore a decent resemblance to himself. 

"Whoa, ai ai ai ai ai, my guys!" cried Sergio, his ridiculous accent ruining the illusion of similarity in 10 seconds flat. "Oh man, it is crazy out there! The parking is like, _nuts_ , and then sometimes, ya know, it's like you _think_ you find a spot, but it's like a _motorcycle's_ parked there, and you're-"

The Deadliest Man scoffed at the Hitman. "Yeah, _definitely_ related, love."

"Sorry i'm late, guys! Got a lot on my plate," Sergio began, ignoring the death stares being aimed at him from the man who'd killed 1147 people, his assassin partner, and their two cronies.

"-tonight is date night, you guys can relate, right?" he tried, bearing a grin that was far too large. The Hitman and the Deadliest Man Alive shared a knowing look, a tiny grin of their own spreading across their faces.

Sergio ran up to the Hitman, taking his hat off as he went. "I know I seem like a real tough guy, man, but i'm actually...," he lowered his voice to a whisper, " _I'm pretty shy, man_."

The Hitman gave him a sympathetic smile. Sergio seemed like a real genuine guy, that wife of his must be lucky. The Deadliest Man Alive also found himself warming to the bomb seller, despite his better judgement.

"Somebody's gotta do it, am I right? Yeah!"

He was now pestering the henchmen, who (unlike their superiors), were highly unimpressed with his antics.

"They say 'do what you're good at', and i'm good at this," Sergio ploughed on, completely oblivious to the imminent danger he was putting himself in as he playfully elbowed one of the cronies. "But I wouldn't do it for free!"

He circled back around, giving the Deadliest Man a hip bump for good measure.

"Ok, hey, i'm really sorry guys, today is my wedding anniversary. I had to stop by my wife's favourite bakery before it closed. Two dozen Montecados and Polvorones-"

He continued rambling, with the danger he was in _finally_ beginning to register on his face. The Hitman gave his partner a look, a _why don't you buy me pastries for our date nights?_ look. The Deadliest Man just rolled his eyes at him, turning his attention to the man in front of them.

"Sergio!" he barked, shutting the man up instantly. "Our business."

Sergio looked a little put out at this. The Hitman felt kind of sorry for him, but the Deadliest Man was right, they needed this bomb. "Oh, yeah, right. One bomb coming up!"

He hesitated slightly, causing the Hitman to start towards him. "What, Sergio?" he asked, clearly throwing the guy off with his voice. It tended to have that affect on anyone that hadn't been hearing it for four years straight.

"Well, it's just..." Sergio began, fumbling around his shirt pocket. "Would you two mind signing something for my nephew, Marco?"

The Hitman had to swallow his laugh at this. Damn, talking about doing the wrong thing for the right reasons. The Santos family sounded like the most functional one in human history.

"Hope you don't mind, guys, please tell me it's fine, guys-"

"Sergio!"

The Deadliest Man Alive sidled up besides the Hitman, staring at Sergio.

"Ok, it's just that if I told him his uncle did business with the Deadliest Man Alive, the Hitman... and company, he wouldn't believe me-"

"SERGIO!"

The Deadliest Man snatched the notebook out of Sergio's hand. "We would be honoured."

The Hitman couldn't help but smile at this. His partner could be such a softy sometimes. "We should make it quick," he added, leading them further down the alleyway.

He heard the faint sounds of bickering behind him as he grabbed the notepad the Deadliest Man handed to him. He rolled his eyes inwardly at the overly-detailed signature that already adorned the page. Snippets of the henchmen's conversation carried over to him as he finished signing.

"- _I_ have 1146 kills!"

"Eh, it's still one less."

The Hitman, Deadliest Man Alive and Sergio all whipped around as a gunshot echoed through the alley, swiftly followed by a "bloody hell!" as the second henchman collapsed to the floor, dead.

”Well, just tied it up, haven’t I?” the remained henchman grinned, exuding an infuriating cockiness that felt far too familiar to the Hitman.

“Say hello,” the henchman continued, wedging himself between his superiors, “to the deadliest _men_ in the world.” The _actual_ Deadliest Man scowled.

“Oh, and the Hitman, o’ course.”

“Hey, you guys can be like a trio or something!” Sergio exclaimed. He was sensing the tension in the air, and was clearly hoping to diffuse the situation. The Hitman had a far better method of doing that, however.

His knife was across the henchman’s throat in a second. Sergio dashed backwards, crying out at the slowly growing pool of blood. The Hitman looked up to see the Deadliest Man Alive brandishing his own knife.

“I wanted that one.”

The Hitman shrugged. “First come, first served. Plus, your kill count’s still higher than mine.”

The Deadliest Man gave him a _fair enough_ look, nudging the almost corpse with his foot.

“There can only be one, love.”

The Deadliest Man gave him _that_ look. The look that said, _let’s mess with_ _him_. The Hitman smiled, already twirling the bloodstained knife in his hands as the Deadliest Man slowly relinquished his machete from it’s prison.

  
”Talk about unhinged,” Ray Archer muttered, watching as the two engaged in thoroughly frightening and befriending Santos, somehow managing both successfully.

He brandished his gun carefully, watching the scene below him unfold. Now wasn’t the right time to step in and take the bomb, was it? What if he’d already missed his mark? He couldn’t ambush the British Guy with a _fucking machete_ AND the scary, scarred Irish dude! What was he supposed to do?!

The slight rattle his gun made in his shaking hands brought him back to reality. _You can do this, Ray, just don’t panic. Y’know, the way you do every time._

A flash of red on the balcony above him caught Ray’s attention.

_Who’s that woman?_

The Hitman thought he saw something on the stairs before. To hammer it home, the unmistakable ginger hair of their resident Russian was on the move. He tapped his ring twice, updating his partner on the situation.

“Freeze! Your hands in the air!”

Ray cursed himself for waiting this long, fumbling down the stairs haphazardly.

The seller, Santos, was pleading with her when Ray finally managed to get in position.

”I suggest you don’t talk,” he declared, hoping beyond hopes that his voice sounded as confident as it was supposed too. Santos’ face lit up. “Agent Archer! My man, you are _famous_!”

The Irish bloke (Ray didn’t have a better name for him) whipped around at those words, eyes quickly finding Ray.

” _You_ ,” he spat, facial features contorting as though he’d stepped in cat vomit. The guy’s voice already sounded like an ancient dragon, but the sheer venom behind that one word caused a tiny whimper to escape from Ray’s mouth. _Goddamnit_.

The British one snatched away his gun, firing it into the ground repeatedly before handing it to the Irish man. He tried firing the gun, only to find it empty. Ray, who was still reeling, tried to dodge too late. He caught a pistol to the head, smacking his jaw against the rough concrete painfully as he went down.

”This isn’t over, Archer,” came that same deadly voice, now being urged to leave by his partner. When Ray’s head finally stopped spinning, he saw the Russian examining the bomb, turning to leave.

He wrapped his hands around her ankle, dragging her to a stop. “That’s mine, actually,” he wheezed, praying that his smile was sympathetic enough to sway her. He pulled his hand up further, gaining purchase in her jacket pocket.

She gave him a coy grin. “I think not.”

She stomped on his hand, which _really fucking hurt, I mean, ow._ When Ray sat up again, she was gone. With the bomb. Ray checked his non-stomped hand, seeing a pristine white card clasped between his fingers.

Great. Now Cynthia’s execution plans would involve a quicker death.

***  
  


“Has the transaction gone according to plan?”

Owen sighed, fiddling with his machete nervously. Curt was still slouched outside the booth, sulking.

”It was,” he said with his fake accent, “until _they_ butted in.”

That was all his ‘employer’ needed, as the line went dead. Owen exited the phone booth, resting his hand on Curt’s shoulder. They’d removed their masks as soon as it was safe too, but now he regretted this heavily.

Seeing the emptiness on Curt’s face was more than he could take right now.

”I’m sorry I used up the bullets, love” he said, pulling Curt into a hug. “I know how badly you want that kill.”

”...you don’t have to apologise like that, Owen. You know I don’t hate you.”

Curt was now hugging him back. “Archer is only part of the bigger problem,” Owen mused, “we’ll tear them down brick by brick.”

He could feel Curt smiling into his chest. “Killing one of their top agents is a good way to start, isn’t it?”

”It’s fantastic.”

Owen allowed himself this happiness. Curt was cheered up, and they had a night to themselves. It was all going rather well.


	10. Pay Attention!

"Hold on a second, Richie, I think my takeout just arrived."

Cynthia only had to shoot an icy glare his way before Ray gulped and sat down. _I'm dead_.

Cynthia kept chatting idly into the phone as if she wasn't already detailing extensive execution plans in her head. Ray fingered the card in his pocket nervously. He wasn't foolish enough to think it would save him, just buy him some time.

"Bye-bye, Vice President Nixon,' she signed off with a synthetic smile, her dead eyes boring straight through Ray's soul like some weird drill made specifically for human souls. At this point, he was entirely convinced that Cynthia was some ancient mythical being that was forcibly woken from her centuries-long slumber, retaliating by making the lives of the pesky humans who disturbed her 1,000 times harder than they needed to be. Who needed the Fear of God when you could have the fear of Cynthia?

"What the _fuck_ did my note say?" she snapped, causing Ray to flinch back instinctively. "...Don't fuck it up?" he tried, wringing his hands together to try and relieve the storm of stress in his mind. "Oh good, you did read it," Cynthia said, twirling her cigarette candidly. "There was one important bit you missed, though-"

"-or I'll kill you, I know, I know," he winced, shying his eyes away from Cynthia's face. God, he did _not_ want to be here right now. "It _astounds_ me, Archer, that despite knowing _full well_ what the fuck you were meant to do, you still failed!" Cynthia barked, shoving the cigarette in Ray's face intimidatingly.

"Your job was _simple_ , alright?! STOP the arms deal, get the bomb! So tell me..."

Ray looked up. He knew that to continue to avoid eye-contact would be carving his gravestone.

"HOW," she growled, "in the frickety flippin' fucksticks did a dangerous weapon of MASS DESTRUCTION end up in the hands of a RUSSIAN SPY when we are in a COLD WAR with RUSSIA!!"

"I'm sorry, okay?! She caught me by surprise! I _tried_ to stop her, but she attacked me and ran off!"

"She stomped on your fucking hand, Archer. Grow a spine."

Ray reeled back at this, gently massaging his no-longer injured hand as the memory resurfaced. "Really hurt," he muttered under his breath, thanking his lucky stars that Cynthia didn't hear him.

"Anyway, I know it's not enough to make up for the bomb, but... I know where she's headed," he stated carefully, presenting the card. Cynthia snatched it instantly. "Hm. Richman's Casino, Monte Carlo. Well, at least you're not a total fucking mess."

She marched over to the projector in the corner. "We'd _really_ be up shit's creek if these two got it."

On the screen were blown-up portraits of the two men Ray saw in the alleyway. "This," she said, pointing to the British bloke, "is the Deadliest Man Alive."

Ray balked. "How many people...?"

"1147, to be exact," Cynthia informed him, bringing up the faces of all his victims. "Holy shit."

"Holy shit indeed. The other guy is called the Hitman," she stated. "Less impressive kill count, but he didn't get the name for nothing."

Next were photos of crime scenes. People expertly slaughtered. From his training, he could tell which of their vitals was targeted, how completely it was destroyed, how long the death would've taken. "He's ruthless, and he's skilled. Once he decides you're dead, you are, no turning back."

Ray gulped. The guys words echoed back to him. _This isn't over_...

"What's up with the scars?"

"No one knows, no one cares," Cynthia said succinctly, turning off the projector. "It seems they've formed a kind of temporary partnership. Shared interests, or some shit."

She stared directly at Ray, forcing him to take an involuntary step back.

"Now, listen carefully you fucking dweeb. We can't afford to let shit hit the fan a second time..."

***

Seeing Curt lying listlessly on the pristine white couch in their Monte Carlo suite burned shackles into Owen's soul. It was a simple thing, to love someone; to wish for their happiness, to hope the best for them, to _be_ _there_ when needed. Owen's partner of nearly 7 years was wearing an expression of such _soullessness_ that he couldn't leave him right now. If there was something he could do, he'd do it. If that meant leaving Curt alone, then he was fine. He just... needed to know first.

Curt felt a familiar weight sink into the cushions next to him. Good, his initial idea of loneliness wasn't working out as well as he'd hoped. A hand gently fell on his shoulder, and he knew what Owen was saying; _Do you want me to leave_ _?_

Curt rested his head on Owen's shoulder, turning to face him. _That's a no_.

Owen pulled his husband close without a second thought. Curt smiled softly, snuggling himself into Owen's warmth. He'd found, over the past few years, that Owen was actually extremely affectionate, especially in moments like these. He would use every pet-name under the sun, constantly be smothering Curt in affection, and generally manage to be softer than Curt, a noteworthy achievement. Curt never complained, since this always happened when all he wanted was Owen's comfort. It was all rather convenient.

"Curt, darling, you're melting," Owen said, smiling slightly. Curt just hummed in response, curling up further into Owen's grip. He sighed, resigning himself to playing with Curt's hair. That was another thing; Owen liked playing with Curt's hair. Curt liked his hair being played with. Just another habit of theirs.

Owen let out a soft sigh. He tried to pull Curt in closer, despite the fact that there was probably only an atom of free space between them already. If they didn't have physical forms, he was sure they'd begin to phase through each other. All he wanted to see was Curt smile. If he could make that happen, then he would not stop trying.

The first time he’d seen Curt like this was their second mission together. God, they’d really fucked that up. Owen distinctly remembered the 10 tonne weight that seemingly dropped into his stomach out of nowhere upon seeing his partner slouched like that. He’d stopped Curt from drinking, but the mood persisted into the morning. Owen, desperate, had dragged him out on a round tour of the city. He could still see the way Curt’s face lit up that day. That sparkly sheen that came over his eyes, the way he bowed his head to hide it, and that _fucking adorable_ giggle.

That was the day he knew he’d fallen for this foolhardy American, and Owen hadn’t regretted a moment since.

Then, the last time this had happened. Curt curled up on the double bed. Photos and documents scattered haphazardly around him, a folder spilling onto the ground.

 _Archer_.

Seeing his partner like this made Owen hate the guy almost as much as Curt did.

Curt just settled into Owen’s grip comfortably. Owen didn’t talk, he just... held him. Curt was thankful for that. He knew someone like his mother, or even Barb, would’ve pushed him until he broke; they would want to know what’s causing this. Owen wasn’t like that. Owen knew what was going on in Curt’s head, knew that talking wouldn’t help. So he was just there, and Curt was eternally grateful he could stay silent.

Curt could feel his already stupidly big heart swelling again. He snuggled himself into Owen’s neck. Turns out a three-inch height difference worked in their favour. He couldn’t help the smile slowly working it’s way onto his face. Right now... he was content.

He felt Owen’s hand cup his cheek carefully, running his thumb over it. He lifted his face to Owen’s, letting the smile take over his face. It was like someone had teleported the sun inside Owen’s skull; Curt was almost blinded by the sheer amount his face lit up.

Curt retaliated to this unrelenting cuteness by swiftly pressing a kiss to Owen’s jaw, forcing him backwards a little.

”Thanks, doll,” he said, marvelling at how burning hot Owen’s face grew whenever he used a petname.

”Tell me, love; how do you think we should go about destroying them?”

Curt hummed thoughtfully, sinking once again into Owen’s embrace. “I like the idea of shoving Archer off a building,” he mused, “that way, we can drag his broken body all the way to New York and shove it in Cynthia’s face.”

Owen chuckled at that. “I’m afraid i’m calling dibs on Cynthia, darling. God knows that witch has it coming.”

”How’re you pulling that off, babe?”

 _God, you’re such an American sometimes. ‘Babe’?_ Owen couldn’t deny that he loved it, though. He mimed a gun being pressed against his head, causing Curt to raise an amused eyebrow.

”I can get behind that,” he chuckled. “Though, I thought you’d be more...” Curt made a throat-slitting motion.

Owen shook his head, amused. “Oh, no no no, dearest, _that_ is for M16.”

”Hang on, Owen. If you get Cynthia, then I get one of yours.”

Owen shrugged. “That’s a fair trade. Now, what about dear Barbara?”

Curt scoffed at that. “Oh, that’s too easy. She’d get an anonymous note informing her of a family tragedy, so she’d be nowhere in the compound.”

”I could always arrange for a dashing young man to accidentally bump into her,” Owen suggested casually.

Curt nodded. “Yeah, if anyone deserves that, it’s her.”

Curt closed his eyes, sinking into the warmth and affection his partner provided. “Tomorrow, we start,” he muttered.

Owen smiled, pressing a kiss to his scalp. “Get some sleep, love. We’ll both need it.”

***

"Oh, hey Ray!" Barb smiled, running up to him. He laughed, hugging her warmly. "Hey Barb, how did that hard drive go?"

At this, she lit up. "Oh, Cynthia _loved_ it! We're working on making it standard issue right now!"

"That's great!" he grinned. Talking to Barb was one of his favourite parts of the job. She always had something interesting to talk about, and giving her a helping hand with her inventions was a perfect stress-reliever. Sure, it'd taken the better part of four years to reach this point. She'd had a huge crush on Mega, and his death hit her _hard_. Ray had been trying to find her a date for a while now, to her (totally unconvincing) chagrin. It was the least he could do.

"So, what have you got for me today?" he asked happily. This was always the best part.

"Well, first we have this watch!" she cried, presenting it on a silver platter. "Be careful, though, it has a clever twist..."

Ray, now wearing the watch, frowned and flicked his wrist upwards a bit. A laser shot out of the dial on the side, causing him to panic and take it off before he destroyed anything. Barb laughed cheekily. "Don't worry, that's a prototype! The laser can't actually cut through anything yet."

Ray gave her a playful smack to the arm. "Barb, you _know_ i'm anxious about destroying this stuff!"

She giggled. "I know, I just wanted to mess with you."

Over the next few minutes, Ray was bombarded with a smorgasbord of incredible inventions that made his job so much easier. A pen that sprayed a type of acid which caused temporary blindness, shoes with a hidden knife in the heels, an everything-proof tuxedo, chewing gum explosives, a ring that shoots a poison dart ("it's only a one-time use, sorry!") and a whole bunch of upgrades for his watch.

"So if I press this dial here..."

"You take a picture, yep!" Barb stated. "Now, Ray, you get to choose something from here!"

He stifled laughter as he was practically dragged to a different room for the fifth time in the past hour, this one full of seemingly random objects.

"Um, okay..." he said thoughtfully. "How about that walking stick?"

"It's actually a gun!"

"Oh, then what about this pencil?"

"Also a gun!"

"Rubber ball?"

"Gun!"

"Pie?!"

"As a matter of fact, a gun!"

Ray sighed. "Everything in here is a gun, isn't it?"

Barb was so giddy looking, he wouldn't be surprised if she accidentally ate that exploding gum. "Yep! I don't expect you to take anything, though. I know you don't like shooting."

"Well, it just seems more logical to just knock someone out, right? If you don't need them dead?"

Barb raised an eyebrow at him. "We need more people like you, Ray Archer."

"Yeah, that would be nice," he sighed wistfully. The amount of idiots he'd put up with...

Ray was turning to leave with a bag full of goods when Barb called out to him. 

"Oh, wait! You know Anthony?"

Ray smiled at the memory. One of the temps here at the A.S.S, him and Barb had hit it off. She tucked her bright blonde hair behind her ear, looking away shyly. "He may have asked me... on a date. Tonight."

Her face burned bright red as she said it, bouncing excitedly. Ray couldn't help but be infected with her bubbly mood.

"Barb, that's great!"

He sent her a joking salute. "Good luck out there."

Barb sent one back, more effervescent than usual.

"You too, Agent Archer!"


	11. Eyes On The Prize

"Aaaand we have one Tatiana Slozhno in the building!" Curt cried. "Looks like our Russian friend didn't betray us after all."

"Give it time, love," Owen replied. "Even we can't resist betraying Von Nazi."

"Don't give away the surprise, Owen! It makes it less fun when I stab him."

"First come, first serve, my dear. You might find that _i'll_ be the one doing the stabbing."

"You wish, you limey bastard."

Owen checked the back of his mask one last time.

"Shall we begin the welcome party?"

***

Ray adjusted his tuxedo carefully. In his head, he told himself it was to maintain his cover, but in reality his deep-seeded fear of looking disheveled and being judged was surfacing after his recent array of screw-ups.

”Gotta keep my eyes on the prize,” he muttered to himself, eyes flitting around the Richman’s Casino floor nervously. It wasn’t hard to spot the Russian; her red hair fell like a curtain from her shoulders, and the dress she was wearing had already gathered the hungry gaze of some more... _unsavoury_ individuals. Ray was simply prepping himself for the interaction. He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t have to flirt with her. That isn’t beneficial to anyone.

The Informant had assumed the position of a Croupier, eyeing him with a hint of amusement.

 _You gotta bite the bullet sometime, Ray_. He let out a sigh that sounded far too much like he was hyperventilating, and walked over to where she was sitting at the bar.

"Is this spot taken?" he asked casually, slicking his hair back in an attempt to be suave. "I don't see why not," she answered, her accent lilting her words strangely. He gave her a quick smile, settling into the seat as quietly as possible. Too much fidgeting would give the game away. She pulled a cigarette from some strange other-dimension that seemed to exist within her dress (probably the closest thing she had to pockets), and Ray fumbled with his own lighter instantly. "Here, let me-"

"Oh, thank you," she replied, holding out the cigarette daintily. This was juxtaposed to the very clumsy way in which Ray lit the match.

"Really, it isn't a problem," he insisted, tucking the lighter back in his pocket. She gave him a sweet little smile. _See? Flirting not necessary!_

"Do you mind?" the 'Courier' said, "This is a non-smoking table. I have lung cancer."

Ray struggled to communicate his eye-roll through only a quick glance, though the Informant seemed to get the gist of what he was going for. "Then perhaps a drink?" offered the Russian, to which Ray nodded quickly. He couldn't afford to mess this up.

"Um, Waitress?" he called, wincing at the words coming out of his mouth. Customer service had to be one of the shittiest jobs out there, and he didn't want to come across as rude.

"Yes?" she sighed, sidling up to them. "I'm sorry to intrude, but I was wondering if we could order?" Ray tried.

"Nah, you're not intruding at all. This _is_ my job," she said with a small laugh. Good, she wasn't super stressed. Unlike Ray. "So, what can I get you guys?"

"Vodka Martini, bone dry," the Russian replied casually. "Rosé Spritzer," he added. The Russian have him a look. He suppressed the shiver that threatened to run down his spine. God, she could be scary.

"What?" he asked innocently, "I don't think being drunk will help me in here."

The scary Russian gave him that smile again, as the waitress confirmed their orders and walked off.

A large man in a large cowboy hat suddenly appeared behind Ray, hand on his shoulder. "Argh, I missed 'er," he declared solemnly. He was very clearly texan, judging by the accent alone.

"Pardon the intrusion, but when I see a young man like yourself here at the high rollers table, I figured he could need a _helpin' hand_ , so to speak," the man drawled, winking at the scary Russian. She looked like she could murder him in a thousand different ways, which Ray didn't doubt one bit. He had half a mind to warn this guy to get away now. _Sorry about this,_ he mouthed discreetly, to which she offered him that same goddamn smile. It was honestly starting to creep him out.

"Oh, that's very... kind of you, sir, but we were just-"

"Oh, and he's American, too! Let me introduce myself."

The man stuck out his hand cheerfully. "My name's Richard Big, but my friend's call me Dick!"

 _I am not calling you Dick_ _Big_.

Richard, as it turned out, was actually very fun company. Sure, he was a little rough around the edges ("hittin' on her, stayin' on her, and if you can't come in her, come on her, God Bless America!"), but he was well-meaning enough. He had a good heart deep down, and Ray trusted that in him, if nothing else.

The night passed relatively uneventfully. Ray stopped himself from getting intoxicated on the job, he couldn't afford any mistakes. The scary Russian seemed to have a strange immunity to vodka, despite consuming a large quantity of it during the evening. He could only assume that she'd spent a large quantity of her youth wasted, and was struggling to decide how much scarier that made her. He wasn't doing _particularly_ well at the whole 'gambling' thing, which did _not_ help with his restlessness. His 'suave spy' facade progressively slipped more and more as the clock ticked on, his own awareness of this fact only making it fall faster. With some of the persuasion and peace-making skills that were, in all honesty, his forte, Ray managed to kickstart an amiable conversation between Richard and a New York girl with curly blonde locks and red cheeks. They both seemed to be enjoying themselves (Richard shot him a wink for good measure), so Ray turned back to his current mark; the highly amused scary Russian.

"So, while they're at it... should we take off?"

"I thought you'd never ask," she said, raising herself from the stool with the kind of grace only someone who darted between the shadows could have. Ray, meanwhile, stumbled upwards awkwardly, nearly tripping over his shoes and landing face first on the Casino floor at least 5 times whilst doing so. Like he'd said; talking was his forte.

"I know somewhere a little more... how you say, private?" she added, strolling towards the elevator in perfect poise. Ray had to cough up the absurd amount of franks Richard's Budweiser's added to the bill before he could follow her.

He suppressed a gulp as the elevator doors closed. No playing around now. He recognised her, she recognised him.

"We do not have much time," she clipped, "I am not working for my country. The Russians do not know of my whereabouts, and if they did, I suspect they'd kill me."

"...A traitor to the KGB. I see," Ray responded heavily. He'd heard rumours of the KGB's working conditions, but had always assumed it was some fear-mongering propaganda to fuel the American hatred of Russia. "I'm sure you had a good reason to leave them, and... i'm sorry you have to run from them."

That smile again. "It is... rare for a spy not to poke further. But yes, you can call me... an independent contractor, of sorts."

"Is there something else I can call you?" In all honesty, he was getting sick of thinking of her as 'the scary Russian lady'.

"Tatiana," she smiled, holding out a hand for him to take. Ray frowned. Was this flirting? It better not be flirting. He was terrible at flirting.

"Good to meet you, Tatiana," he grinned back, taking her hand gently. "I assume you already know who I am. It's nice to know you're not stomping on my hand this time around."

She let out a soft laugh, retracting her hand to pet his shoulder lightly. Some of the tension in his chest dissipated. He was pretty sure that patting people's shoulders _wasn't_ flirting.

"You can tell you bosses that the bomb is far away from Russian hands, and will remain so."

"That's a relief to everyone," Ray quipped lightly.

Tatiana was looking at him weirdly. He couldn't identify the look in her eyes exactly... was it affection? No, no, she looked... sad almost. Affectionately sad? Sadly affectionate? He didn't know what to make of it.

"You know, the bravado you were trying earlier does not suit you. I prefer you like this."

He blanched slightly, looking down at himself. "Like what?"

"Kind," she replied blankly, staring ahead of her. "The 'Agent Mega' act will only get you so far."

Great. Even the scary Russian Tatiana knew about Mega. "What do you know about him?"

"Only that he was good at what he did, and that he acted like how you tried to tonight."

Ray sat in the silence for a few seconds. The longest seconds in his life, definitely, but still only seconds.

"You can have the bomb," Tatiana broke the silence carefully. He gave her a look. A long, hard look that tried to decipher the expression on her face. His training hadn't prepared him for this.

"Wait, are you... are you serious? You're going to give me the bomb?"

She averted her eyes as she smiled. _Suspicious_ , his training told him. "You've been on the field for four years, Ray Archer, and yet you strike me as someone who will need all the help he can get."

"I mean, uh..." he stuttered, embarrassment shining on his face. Was he _really_ that incompetent.

"This is not a critique of your abilities," Tatiana backtracked quickly, placing a hand upon his arm, "it is a complement of your heart. People like us tend to pretend that they are better alone. You are a better man than that; your interactions with that other American has proven this."

Her eyes finally met his, crinkled around the edges. "I will help you because you are a good man."

He couldn't stop the giddy grin that was spreading over his features. _A good man_ , he thought to himself. The phrase repeated itself in his head. Tatiana barely knew him, and yet she thought so highly of him? How the hell did he make a good impression on somebody?

 _This is new_. He could practically bounce up and down in excitement. _A good man_ , he mouthed to himself over the _ding_ of the elevator. _I'm a good man! I'm a good person!_

Tatiana led him down the hallway to her room. In hindsight, maybe he should've paid more attention. More attention to the way she hung her head. More attention the the dragging of her heels on the carpet. More attention to the sagging of her shoulders as they advanced. However, he was still too goddamn giddy from an (admittedly) simple and one-note compliment to care about any of that. A more skeptical man would say this was purposeful; that the compliment was intended with this in mind. Ray couldn't find it within himself, even after the realisation of what was happening, to hate Tatiana, though. He didn't even know if he was capable of such a thing as hate.

"I'm so sorry," Tatiana muttered, melancholy dragging at the edges of her voice.

Ray snapped out of his trance quicker than he would have if he'd been shot. "Tatiana," he began, heart swelling at the flinch her name elicited, "you've done nothing wrong."

"Yes," she said, her voice breaking, "I have."

It was a strange phenomenon, the opening of a door. Beyond that door could lay anything; oblivion, friendship, even a really comfortable couch and a nice wooden coffee table. Of all the things Ray expected to appear from behind Tatiana's door, it was not the feeling of cold metal being pressed to his head and throat. It was not the machete being pressed to close to his jugular that merely gulping would release a trickle of blood. It was not the barrel of a military-issue pistol being jabbed harshly between his eyes. It was not the smug, winning grin of the Deadliest Man Alive. It certainly wasn't the twisted smile that filled his vision, a mouth made of a thousand broken shards, the final glittering reminders of that sharp glass glaring at him out of cold, dead eyes. It wasn't The Hitman's auror washing over him, the terror boiling him from the inside like an overheating kettle.

"Ello, Archer," snarled the Deadliest Man.

The crooked smile of the Hitman widened, giving Ray the impression of a war-battered Cheshire the Cat.

"I told you I wasn't finished."


	12. Not So Bad?

Ray Archer was tied to a chair in the middle of the room. The Hitman was savouring the delicious amount of panic that contorted his features. It was the same type of panic he remembered feeling all those years ago, the once-distant memory sharpening into a white-hot blade. He couldn't wait for the orders, ' _kill the American spy_ '. He was going to destroy the man who took over his life, and it was going to be painful. The Hitman had spent the past four years mastering his knowledge of the human body. His first appearance coincided with him absolutely _nailing_ his target's spinal cord, causing the man to crumple into a heap on the ground. Complete injury, judging by the stillness, probably quadriplegic if he'd survived (which he didn't). The next time, he targeted the brainstem. _That_ death was quick.

He knew Chimera wanted him for torture. His knowledge was perfect for it, after all. However, he didn't find the appeal of it. What was the point of causing someone that much hurt if you weren't going to put them out of their misery? It's like a lame animal. You wouldn't just leave a horse with a broken leg to die, you would shoot the thing so it didn't have to suffer for that much longer.

He wanted to kill Archer now, to finally put an end to his four-year delusion of being A.S.S's 'best'. That used to be his title, and he'd earned it fair and square. This idiot didn't get to take that from him.

'I'm going to find Baron," The Deadliest Man Alive muttered to him. He could tell the Hitman was antsy, and honestly? He wanted to get this over with too. Unlike his partner, the Deadliest Man had a grander vision; the Secret Service falling to it's knees amongst ashes and flame. In order to get there, he had to take that first step. Too bad his idiotic 'employer' was stopping him from doing so.

"Sir, they're all waiting for-"

"-you!" Dr Baron Von Nazi squeaked, surprised at the sudden interruption.

The Deadliest Man Alive sighed. This was going to be a _long_ torture session.  
  


***  
  


"Well, well, well!" Von Nazi cried, entering the room with a confident trot. The Deadliest Man followed behind him, looking exasperated after less than a minute of interaction. Ray sighed internally as he joined the Hitman in the darkest corner of the room. _Oh, this'll be grand_.

"Agent Ray Archer," the Dr said, with air quotes, "I have heard so much about you, and now we finally meet. I had expected more from the new Agent Mega."

The Hitman's unhinged eyes tracked Ray's every move. He'd already been using the extent of his training to quell the exorbitant amount of terror in his system, and this was _not_ helping him stop it from spilling over.

"Well," he began (with a gulp, but no-one had to know about that), "I, uh... thought the new Nazi Leader would be more intimidating?"

His attempt at a cocky jab seemed to work, as Von Nazi snapped back with a 'Shut Up!" as soon as the words left his mouth.

"I am in charge here, Archer!" their 'boss' declared, causing the Hitman to snigger slightly. He was swiftly met with a gently elbow to the ribs before anyone could hear. "Would you kindly not?," the Deadliest Man hissed, which prompted the Hitman to give him a _sorry, I couldn't help it_ , expression. His partner shot back with a _Okay, it is amusing_ expression before they settled again.

"Tatiana, why are you working for this guy?!" Ray questioned. She seemed so down-to-earth, why would she partner with a Nazi?

"We all have our reasons," she whispered solemnly. His mind began to whir immediately. _Something to do with the Russians?_

"Don't get involved, love," the Deadliest Man Alive warned. The Hitman's eyes were still fixed on Ray. He shivered as he remembered the shattered smile he was greeted with when Tatiana opened the door. His mind flashed to the records Cynthia had shown him for an explanation.

"The chips are stacked in my favour!"

The Deadliest Man Alive was a straight-up serial killer. One doesn't get a kill count that high by being picky about it. It seemed that he shot down anyone who was in his way, literally more often than not. The Hitman was more... precise. All of his targets were from various government agencies, and all of them had significant ties to America. He remembered the photos; a young woman who was in league with the A.S.S. had her skull dislocated from her spinal cord. Based on the bruising, it seemed the Hitman had struck the pressure point TW-17, a small area behind the ear, at the exact right angle & with the perfect amount of force for a gruesome death. _Once he decides you're dead, that's it_. Was Ray simply the next A.S.S. agent in his crosshairs? Was it random, or was it personal? He didn't know. In all honesty, he didn't _want_ to know.

"Archer!"

Ray snapped out of his little pity-daze instantly, looking at Von Nazi's annoyed face. "Did you not listen to my joke? About the chips?"

"Oh, um, I kind of checked out back there. I've heard a lot of villain monologues before, and it gets a little tiring after a while."

He was being honest. After four years of this, the huge speeches really didn't affect him any more. It was mainly just the 'being-tied-up' part and the 'physical-pain' part that still scared him.

"You wont be so cocky after tonight!" The Dr cried, walking around his chair menacingly. There was a scoff in the background.

"You guys aren't going to win," Ray said, confusion clouding his features. "You're the bad guys, so you'll lose."

"The Bad Guys, really? Look at the state of Germany after two World Wars!"

Ray, once again, checked out, because of the Hitman. He was regarding him with a curious glint in his eye. He was the one who'd scoffed before. He advanced towards Ray slightly, while Von Nazi was rambling. "I've seen recklessness in a thousand Agents before you," he growled, "that arrogance will get you nowhere."

The Hitman's threat was then interrupted by the beginning of the end of human sanity.

"The Nazis, well...”

”I feel a song coming on,” began the Deadliest Man Alive, quickly followed by “Is this really happening right now?” from the Hitman.

Von Nazi began to sing. The Nazi. Was _singing_.

Ray stared at the guy in disbelief as he kept going on and on. “Perhaps the Nazis aren’t so bad,” he ended, and Ray fully checked out.

The Deadliest Man Alive slowly backed into the shadows, the Hitman following after him carefully. Everyone else in the room was looking at Von Nazi in a state of disbelief, so the shadows were only an extra precaution. Still, the Deadliest Man Alive wanted to be sure.

Owen wanted to be sure.

He gently wrapped his arm around Curt’s shoulders, pulling him in carefully. Curt rested his head on Owen immediately, humming lightly at the affection. Owen squeezed him slightly in return.

”You okay, love?” he asked, accent slipping. Curt knew what he was talking about instantly.

”I’m just... preparing myself, I guess,” Curt muttered back, switching to his usual American (to Owen’s approval, though he’d never say it). “He’s right here in front of me. I just wish our ‘boss’ would hurry up. I don’t think waiting’s going to help.”

Owen cast a hawks-eye around the room. The idiot Baron was still occupying their full attention, so he felt confident enough to press a swift kiss to Curt’s forehead. He pulled away, staring at Owen incredulously. “You’ll get us caught!”

”I know,” he sighed, letting go of Curt, “just wanted to help.”

”Mission accomplished,” Curt smiled, turning his attention back to Von Nazi, who’d seemingly multiplied into four other Nazis (one of which looked scarily like Owen).

”WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!” Ray shouted in disbelief, which the Nazis completely ignored. Of course they did.

After they _finally_ shut up, and spared him the sheer disgust and discomfort of trying to say that Nazi’s aren’t pieces of shit, Ray sighed in anguish.

”This is a joke...right? Please tell me it is.”

The Hitman stuck a thumb in the direction of the Nazi henchman. “Unfortunately for all of us, it isn’t.”

”Seems his noggins a bit dense!”

It all happened in seconds. The flash of a blade, the sound of a body crumpling to the floor. The Hitman was wiping off a small knife, not paying attention to the figure writhing in pain on the ground. “I can speak for myself.”

Ray’s own stomach began whirling like a tornado when he looked down.

He could clearly see the cuts, right around her knees. He saw how deep they went, and knew what’d happened instantly. The medical aspects of his training kicked in as he worked to identify the muscles in that area. His hands clenched the rope tightly as the knowledge settled in; he’d sliced right through the tendons and skeletal muscles of her knee, rendering her unable to walk. It was gruesome, it was painful.

It exactly was the Hitman’s MO, and right now, it might be what was going to happen to him.

The Deadliest Man Alive cut in with a tut and a larger knife through the Nazi’s (Gretel? Ray was pretty sure is was Gretel) side. “Thank you very much.”

Ray turned his attention back to Von Nazi as his henchmen helped the dying Gretel out of the door.

"Long musical number short, I am rebuilding the Nazi empire in a new nation!"

"No one will let you do that!" he shouted, "you're _Nazis_!"

"Oh really, Archer?" Von Nazi declared smugly, clapping his hands. To Ray's abject horror, Cynthia's voice filled the room.

"Now the Prince of the New Democratic Republic of Old- oh, fuck it. He's an inexperienced, inbred, dumbo doofus and all the great leaders feel the same way! That doesn't leave this room."

"How... how did you-"

"A little birdie told me," Baron grinned.

"That little birdie being an advanced network-"

"Do we really need to tell him that?" the Hitman interrupted.

"Well, he fucking asked."

"Yeah, but I don't think telling him will help much of anything, seeing as he'll be dead in a few."

"Then why does it matter if I monologue?"

"There are far better people to monologue too."

Von Nazi cleared his throat, attracting their attention. "Now that I am privy to the little secrets world leaders say behind each other's backs, I plan to use it to my advantage. At the World Peace Gala in Geneva! Tomorrow night, the Hitman will lure the idiot prince into a trap, where he and the Deadliest Man will hold him ransom! Then, we add the threat of blowing up their nation's capital with the bomb stolen by our dear Tatiana. When none of the great powers come to his aid, I will sweep in and offer them a helping hand. It is then that I will rise as the new Führer!"

"Watch this," Owen muttered, walking towards Von Nazi. Curt mentions having butterflies _once_ , and his husband is already working to cheer him up. He must be the luckiest man in the world.

"Sir, sir, don't forget about your advanced Nazi super castle!" He exclaimed, and Curt had to hide his snigger.

The sheer unironic excitement that lit up Von Nazi's eyes as he began to ramble forced him to double his efforts. Owen shot him a wink when he saw Curt's hands over his mouth and his shaking shoulders. _You bastard_ , he returned through his gaze, to which Owen merely shrugged.

Of course, this was all cut short when the Owen doppelgänger Nazi started to ramble about the silicone. Luckily, he knew the drill already, and walked into the machete willingly.

"Still counts as mine."

"Of course it does."

Ray gave Tatiana a sympathetic look when Von Nazi grabbed her out of nowhere. It's clear she regretted this whole ordeal, and he didn't blame her; blackmail is one hell of a thing.

"Mr Deadliest Man, please show our guest to his death." At this, the Hitman walked towards him, eyes glinting maliciously. "Mr Hitman, I need you for something else. Follow me!"

He looked to Owen. _I'll keep him alive until you get back_ , his gaze said. Curt nodded, and followed Von Nazi. A few more minutes. He could wait a few more minutes.

Ray watched Tatiana retreat through the door. He was alone, tied to a chair with the Deadliest Man Alive sneering down at him. He silently walked around him, grabbing a huge leather bag that Ray really didn't want to find out the contents of. He kept watching as the Deadliest Man pulled a pair of pliers from his back pocket. His stomach turned, and his heart leapt into his throat quicker than a rabbit hopping a fence. "W-what are you doing?" he whimpered, trying desperately to restrain his fear from his voice, "why don't you j-just kill me?".

The Deadliest Man grinned at his fear. "Well, I really _would_ , you see," he hissed menacingly, leaning down next to Ray's ear, "bu' you've been reserved."

He tried to squirm away, causing his captor to laugh. "So here's how it's gonna work, Archer."

He brandished the pliers, metal flashing almost as much as his smile. "Until our dear Hitman gets back from 'is little errand, i'm gonna torture the living shite outta you."

Ray's terror couldn't be contained any more. He tried, desperately, the push his chair away from the madman, but it was seemingly bolted in place. _What the hell?_

The pliers were snapped, once, twice, three times, each _clunk_ of metal hitting metal bringing them closer to his face. On the fourth clench, they managed to grab hold of Ray's stubble. His shout of pain was constricted to a whistle through his clenched teeth as the hair was ripped carelessly from his chin. He let out a breath that sounded too much like a cough, shaking his head in a desperate bid to clear his mind before any actual harm came to him. _I have to get out. I have to escape before i'm too damaged to run_.

He felt the calloused fingers of a killer grip his chin roughly, tilting up his head with a pathetic whimper. The gleam in the Deadliest Man's eyes fuelled Ray's attempts to struggle from his grip. His horror doubled as his mouth was forced open, pliers catching one of his molars in an unbreakable grip. He could barely scream as it twisted, _twisted,_ the metal in his mouth blocking the sound. He could feel the flesh of his gum ripping itself apart in its futile attempts to reclaim the tooth, and a sharp _tug_ sent a spike of pain down through his jaw. The scream was finally released, terrified and raw, as the tooth was yanked from its place and held up to the cheap yellow lights. Ray fell forward, panting through the pain like a starving, stray dog. His tongue ran itself over the ruptured muscle, feeling tiny shards of bone that'd fractured from the main tooth as it was teased out of him.

Blood began to drip from his mouth as tears clouded his eyes. The world blurred, a mixture of pain and the salty liquid that threatened to burst from his eyes, and he forced himself to focus. Focus just in time to feel the heat of flying sparks behind him.

The guttural sound that was ripped mercilessly from his throat didn't sound human anymore. He was on fire; every atom and molecule in his body was charged to burst, severed from each other by a cruel stone blade and pulled apart like a toddler destroying his favourite toy. White hot flames coursed through him, baking the backs of his eyes and frying his brain in his skull. He was dying, _he was dying_ , and he tried to let it out, force the fire out of him with a yell. As soon as it was there, it was gone. It was over. Ray slouched, the ropes biting cruelly into his wrists the only thing supporting his weight. He heard the sparking again, and shook his head, _no, no_ , before another scream bubbled out of him as his spine straightened and his head was thrown back.

Something was dripping from his face. Whether it was blood or tears, he didn't know. The third time, he didn't even have the energy to react. He just sobbed.

His thoughts had spilled, like dropping a cup of coffee on the pavement. His scrambled mind raced to put itself back together as Ray raised his head. His captor punched him in the face, sending his brain back into overdrive. There was a pressure building on his head, and some miraculously unshaken part of him realised his torturer was squeezing it like a melon. He quietly begged for it to stop, his relief at his head being released quickly cut short by the cold, rusted metal of a chain being wrapped around his neck. He spluttered, tears mixing with the blood from his tooth pitifully.

Suddenly, the pain was gone. Ray blinked once, looking over to where the Deadliest Man Alive had been. Tatiana was there, frantically cutting through the ropes binding him. He scanned the room, quickly spotting the very unconscious Deadliest Man lying on the floor beside him.

"You came back for me?!"

"There's no time, we have to go!"

Ray nodded, taking her hand and stumbling through the casino ungracefully. His thoughts were finally starting to settle, and he could-

_Bang!_

Ray shouted as a bullet burrowed its way into his side; the twisted glee alight on the Hitman's face bored through him as he cocked the gun for a second shot. "Ray!"

The Hitman's contorted features haunted him all the way to the elevator, accompanied by the Deadliest Man's words; _you've been reserved_.

He looked back, and the Hitman was nowhere to be found.

***

"Owen!"

At the sound of his name, Curt's partner stirred, hand rubbing the back of his head.

He'd had Archer; the sight of his fried, bloodied face gave Curt a kind of sick joy that he relished just as much as he was disgusted by it. He snapped out of it, though, after he thought about the implications. _Archer was free, Owen was hurt_.

Someone with little experience in these matters would say that he'd had a choice; either chase down Archer and get the justice he craved, or go back to check if Owen was hurt. Of course, there was no choice. Not when it came to Curt Mega.

He knelt by Owen, ripping his mask off without hesitation. He didn't know how badly Owen was hit, didn't know if he was lucid enough not to panic when he saw a potential threat. Curt needed him to see his face. "Curt," Owen muttered, smiling slightly. He wasn't using the accent.

"Put your bloody mask back on, you idiot."

So he wasn't too muddled. Great. Curt obeyed, tugging it on with one hand as he used the other to help Owen up. "Can you walk?" he asked, still refusing to use his false voice. Owen didn't seem to care. "Of course, love. Just got a bit muddled there."

It didn't seem like he had a concussion, but Curt wasn't willing to take that risk. "Come on," he huffed gruffly. "Let's get you back to the room."


	13. We Love Our Husbands! ...And Maybe the Prince

Curt couldn’t sleep. It was something he’d always had; before birthdays when he was a child, or important missions as a man, he found himself wide awake. When he and Owen first got together, he finally had something to do during these nights. He has someone to talk to, someone who could ease his nerves.

On nights like tonight, however, merely another presence in the bed was enough to help him. Curt was going into double espionage tomorrow, and it wasn’t going to be easy.

The mental gymnastics of him disguised as the Hitman disguised as an Irish Official irked him, which had thoroughly amused Owen.

Owen, who’s once peaceful sleep was being ruined. His face screwed up, and he was slowly folding in on himself, curling up like a dead spider. Curt put his hand on Owen’s arm as he started shaking.

Tonight was an Owen night, as it turned out.

Owen whimpered his name into the dark, searching for him desperately. Curt gripped his hands tightly, anchoring him to reality. Owen wrapped around him instantly. This wasn’t the first time Curt had become Owen Carvour’s personal teddy bear, and he didn’t mind one bit. Instead, his fingers carded through Owen’s loose hair comfortingly.

Whether Owen ended up waking or not, Curt didn’t know. All that he knew was that his partner relaxed back into peaceful slumber, and managed to coax Curt along with him. Of course Owen was the one to finally get him to sleep.

***  
  


"You can't be serious, Ray!"

Barb was stitching up the bullet wound in his side. The dim lights of their safe-house made Ray feel like he was stuck in some sort of horror flick.

"Barb, they're going to kidnap someone! I cant stand by and let people get hurt, okay?! It's my job to help them!"

"Oh, Ray," Barb sighed, shaking her head slightly. "You better not get yourself killed. You're supposed to be the best man at me and Anthony's wedding!"

Ray let out a light laugh, quickly cut off by a sharp _tug_ of pain in his side. "Cynthia ordered you to lay low for a bit, Ray! You can keep going once this heals up."

"You don't understand, Barb, she didn't know their plan before now! A new Nazi nation... that's enough to make anyone reconsider!"

Ray shook his head. "Listen... i'm done with all this. With the pretending, with the hubris... I'm going to Geneva because..."

He let out a shaky sigh.

"Because i'm supposed to be a good man! And a good man wouldn't rest until he knew the day was saved."

Barb started bandaging his side, smiling exasperatedly. "We need more people like you, Archer."

***

"Cynthia!"

Cynthia looked up from her dance with Susan, no longer caring about blending in.

"Archer? What the fuck are you doing here, I told you to wait a day before you kept tailing them!"

"No, Cynthia, you don't understand," Ray begged, "I know what they're planning!"

The Hitman adjusted the lapels of his tuxedo carefully.

 _"You need to wear this more often," Owen_ _had_ _hummed, pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead._

The second mask he was wearing had been made at short notice, meaning it wasn't as flexible or comfortable as his usual one. At least it didn't have a beard. The voice had taken less work, just a higher, less intimidating version of his standard falsetto.

He'd entered with the British Government officials. He was always best at hiding in plain sight, and assimilated into the crowd of the most powerful people in the world in the blink of an eye. The biggest thing to come of this night so far, however, was the conclusion that every place he went had its own version of Owen. Britain had, of course, the wonderful Owen Carvour, Budapest had Sergio Santos, Monte Carlo had that waiter, Germany had Hans the Nazi.

The version of Owen present in the New Democratic Republic of Old Socialist Prussian Sloviskia was named Vanger Borschtit, and the Hitman had to get close to him in order to obtain Prince Feurgin. Unfortunately, the guy darted around the room like a loose soap bar in the shower, making his job that much harder.

His exhausting hunt for the Prince was swiftly cut off, however, when he saw a familiar face in the corner of the room. Cynthia Houston, dressed to impress (and clearly unimpressed), accompanied by Susan. His old boss was the one who'd caught his attention, but the man she was talking to kept it. Ray fucking Archer. Of _course_ he'd show up again.

The Hitman edged towards their conversation slowly.

"Who cares if they kill the Prince? He's a fucking loony tune!""

"Cynthia, we're talking about a Nazi takeover!"

She scoffed. "You think that Von Nazi idiot's plan will actually work? Jesus christ, I haven't been this amused since Mega-"

"Shut up!" Ray shout-whispered, more venom in his voice than he intended. Cynthia gave him wide eyes, taken aback by his sudden anger. _Well, no time like the present_.

"Everybody always compares me to Mega already, okay?! I don't need you to do it too! Why does everything I do have to be seen like i'm his doppelgänger!"

_Huh._

That was it. The thing the Hitman's ears just told him, that tone of genuine resentment and pure, undiluted _exhaustion_. The anger in Archer's eyes, the way his hands balled into fists at the notion.

Of course. He'd been an idiot. Of _course_ this guy would be tired of being stuck in someone else's shadow. The Hitman would've been the same way, of course; if every action he took was viewed through the lens of some long-dead super agent, he'd get really fucking annoyed really fucking quickly. Archer wanted to blaze his own trails, his ego couldn't handle being forced to be the 'replacement'. All this time, he assumed Archer would be relishing in replacing him. The Hitman had been dead wrong, though.

Archer wasn't humble enough for that. At least, that's what his twisted mind was convinced of upon hearing those words. The laugh that bubbled from him blended with the tinkling giggles and amicable chatter around him. How _ironic_ was it, then, how _cruel_ it would be for Archer to not only never extract himself from his legacy, but to be killed by the man who'd prevented his arrogance from blossoming!

The Hitman walked off again, still smiling. He could only say one thing.

"Huh."

"Diplomat Poopin!"

The Russian turned to him with a curious expression. "Yes?"

"The Nazis are here tonight! They- they plan on kidnapping the Prince, and-"

"The Prince is an idiot!" Poopin exclaimed, "I wont help you."

He immediately turned to suck up to Prince Feurgin as he and Vanger approached.

"Ray, what are you doing!"

It was Susan. He was gesturing for Ray to leave frantically.

"No... I don't care if the Prince is an idiot, Susan, he's an innocent man and I can't let the Nazis win!"

Susan paled. "Don't tell me you're..."

"I have to, Susan," Ray pleaded, "You're a great man; I hope you understand why I have to warn them."

"It's so... reckless."

"Please don't remind me!" Ray whined, shaking his head. The metaphorical beehive he'd swallowed when the idea presented itself too him was currently tearing his stomach to shreds. There was no other choice; he had to stop it somehow, and the only people who cared for the Prince's safety were his own people. He could try and stop the Hitman from kidnapping Feurgin, but the simple fact is that even if he could feasibly defeat him (which he probably couldn't), he would be lucky to even glimpse him in here.

"Sometimes... you've just gotta suck it up and do what's best for everyone!"

With that, he quickly ran to Vanger, snatching the microphone away from him. "I-I'm sorry, it's important!" Ray stuttered, scrambling up to the speaking podium with the grace of a suffocating trout.

"L-listen up!" he said, voice magnifying to fill the whole room. His hands were shaking to the point that the mic looked like a quivering grey blur in his hands. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop his voice from acting up and stuttering all over the place. _WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING THIS IS CRAZY AND IDIOTIC RAY ARCHER WHAT WERE YOU THINKING YOU ABSOLUTE BUFFOON-_

"We d-don't have that much time! Tonight, there is a plot to capture Prince Feurgin!"

The Hitman scoffed, impressed. Archer played the 'nervous guy who wasn't sure if he was doing the right thing or not' act pretty well. Better than he ever had, anyway. The stutter and twitching movements slowly faded from his performance as the rousing speech continued, slowly enough that the average observer would say he was simply gaining confidence as he charged on. The Hitman wasn't the average observer, though. He knew what Archer truly was; a pompous, arrogant, conceited douchebag that broke when he got called out; his fear in Monte Carlo and his actions tonight were proof of that.

A tiny voice hissed out of his ring, the familiar cockney coming out tinny through the communicator. "Change o' plans, love," the Deadliest Man Alive said, "I know how we can twist this confession in our favour."

The Hitman's own grin widened at the inference. "You sick bastard," he hissed back, "I love the way your mind works."

 _That's not the only thing you love_ , the following silence implied. The Hitman simply rolled his eyes and pulled out his gun. _So much for my usual finesse._

It was going better than expected. The Prussian Slovaks were actually _listening_ to him, and had begun to group around the Prince as a sort of fake-protection. Ray found that the more he talked, the easier the words came out, and the less twitchy he became. By now, he could be confident enough to be taken seriously!

That is, until the Prince's head exploded into red mist, blood and brains.

Ray gave a terrified yelp that he desperately hoped the microphone didn't pick up, shaking harder and faster than before. He fell to his knees as someone (probably Vanger) snatched the mic away from him. His hands instantly went to his head, and the image of what just happened settled into his mind.

_They killed him. They actually killed him. I fucked it up. If I hadn't said anything, he'd still be alive. I got an innocent man murdered because I couldn't relax and think it through for 2 seconds! What have I done what have I done what have I done-_

"Archer!"

Ray looked up at the familiar voice, not caring about the feeling of tears on his face. "Tatiana?"

"Looks like saving you is going to become a regular thing," she said, helping him up. "We have to go, do you have a safehouse?"

"A-a safe-" he started, trying desperately to force the tears back through his eyes. "Uh, yeah, in Massachusetts-"

"Then we have no time to waste, come on!"

***

"Carvour-stop-tickling-me-this-instant!"

Owen finally relented, laughing at the hue of Curt's face. For him, there was no better high than a mission well done, and the combination of Von Nazi persuading that TV host and Curt in a tuxedo left a perfect evening for him to enjoy. He lay his head across Curt's lap, legs crossing themselves on the arm of the sofa. Thank god there weren't any mugs there.

Curt began to card his fingers through Owen's hair, and he hummed, turning to face his partner. "That was a wonderful shot, my dear," he said, marvelling at how Curt's blush deepened with the pet name. "Well, I _was_ the greatest spy to ever live."

That one earned him a gentle smack on the arm. "Oh sod off, we both know I'm better at espionage!"

"Yeah, but are you better at handling _this_?"

Curt's hand had been travelling lower and lower through Owen's hair, teasing it out of its usual slicked-back position. Now his hand darted to the small of Owen's back, his weak spot when it came to tickling.

Owen was on the floor in an instant, curled up into a ball and shaking from the aftermath. "Mega... you bastard..." he panted, not enjoying the shit-eating grin Curt was wearing one bit.

"What's up, babe?" he declared smugly, and Owen had to dart to hide his face behind the pillows that'd fallen with him. He could feel it burning with the power of a thousand suns through the fabric.

"Oh come on, _darling_ , what's the matter?" Curt mused, "you can dish it out, but you can't take it?"

A small 'shut up' escaped his lips, weak and pathetic even for his tastes. Curt laughed, and picked up everything but Owen and put them on the couch. He would _not_ give Curt the satisfaction of bridal carrying him (despite not minding at all), he would _not_ let Curt win.

He heard a sigh from above him. "Get up, Owen. This isn't any fun unless we keep cuddling."

"Nope," he replied resolutely, "you dug this grave and now you get to lie in it."

He saw Curt roll his shoulders, clearly preparing for something Owen _knew_ would end him. He screwed his eyes shut in anticipation, shaking his head lightly.

"Curt, no, not the puppy eyes, _please_ not the puppy eyes-"

But it was too late. A tiny 'Oweeen' coaxed his eyes open again, forcing him to gaze upon the face Curt had spent the better part of a year perfecting.

"Oh, fine," he muttered, lifting himself onto the couch to Curt's glee. He re-assumed his position across his husband's lap, Curt already beginning to play with his hair again. He gave him one final glare before he gave up; Owen had lost. He let Curt cup his face, humming lightly. He _did_ have to admit, this was better than the floor.

"Owen," Curt began, gaining his attention once more, "are you... okay? After last night, I mean."

Oh, the nightmares. Owen closed his eyes, letting himself melt. "I'm fine, Curt. Just happy everything went so well."

They stayed like that for a while, Owen laid lackadaisically on Curt's lap. The man was almost like a radiant heater, he could literally stay there forever and still say he'd lived a fulfilling life.

"You asleep?" Curt whispered, after an eternity. "Nearly," Owen murmured. He couldn't remember when exactly he'd started hugging Curt's arm, but now that it was moving, he gave a tiny groan of protest.

Curt gave a sigh, full of warmth and affection poorly covered up by fake exasperation. He lifted Owen up in a bridal position, walking through their safehouse quietly. He allowed himself a tiny smile. _Victory is mine._


	14. Our Last Shot

Ray's Massachusetts safe-house wasn't much. A small bedroom, a bathroom that could barely fit a shower, toilet & sink, a cheap TV in front of an uncomfortable couch, and a combined dining room/kitchenette that could house 3 people maximum. Still, it was enough for him. Until he got a family (yes, very likely, considering he'd never found any woman attractive, let alone _considered_ sex), he was fine living in this shitty apartment. His parents always ended up inviting him to their place for major events anyway.

Tatiana looked around curiously as he prepared a couple mugs of coffee. If she minded, she didn’t show it, sitting quietly on the stiff, faded cushions of his couch. “Thank you,” she said as he handed her a steaming mug. Ray settled next to her uneasily, fingering the handle of his coffee cup and trying to deduce the correct amount of eye contact for the situation.

She took a sip. “This is very good,” she said in monotone, raising an eyebrow at Ray. Figuring she wanted an explanation, he acquiesced.

”My, uh, my dad runs a coffee shop near his house,” he muttered, “I worked there part-time when I was in training.”

She smiled at him. “You are very lucky. I never got to have those moments with my family.”

“Uh, yeah, you mentioned something about your family to Von Nazi, right? I assumed he was blackmailing you, so...”

Tatiana gave a quick chuckle. “You would be correct. Let me start from the beginning...”

When she said ‘the beginning’, she really meant it. How she was taken as a young child, trained to be a killer by the time she was 13, how she left to protect her family. Von Nazi promised her a way back to her parents, but snatched it from beneath her at the last second.

”... I will always be a prisoner of my past,” she finished, gulping down the last of her coffee. Then...

”Ray Archer, why are you hugging me?”

Ray recoiled quickly. “Sorry, I just... If figured you could use a hug?” he explained, giving her an apologetic look. She smiled again.

”You are too kind for your own good. Now, you tell me.”

He paled. “Tell you what?”

She hit his arm gently. “A story for a story, Archer. Tell me what has been bothering you.”

 _Oh, shit_. He let out a sigh. This was going to be long...

”It’s just... okay, so, when I first went into training, we had this thing where we would meet with existing Agents, right? On my last year, Curt Mega was there to see us. I was _really_ nervous, obviously, he was the best in the biz! But when I met him... I dunno, he was a little full of himself, but he was also really chill! When I heard I was slated to work with him when I finally joined the A.S.S, I was _super_ excited. I wanted to get to know him more. But then... the accident happened. With him and Carvour. I saw Carvour briefly, actually, before their mission together... anyway, as soon as I was hired, they gave me all of Mega’s left-over stuff. I don’t know how it happened exactly, but... people began to see me as Mega 2.0, the new super Agent. The thing is, I’m nothing like him! He was cool and suave and never panicked in the face if danger, and I’m not any of that! I’m super jittery, I hate fighting, I’m better with diplomatic situations and there is _nothing_ about me that’s charming or debonair! I just... I wish people would stop _pushing_ Mega’s identity on me. It’s cost me a couple of missions, just knowing that I’m not doing it the way _he_ would have. I just... want to be my own man.”

Tatiana placed her hand on his shoulder gently. “I understand. Being forced to compare to another man with different values is a difficult cross to bear. You are a good spy for different reasons, and people who cannot see that fact are idiots.”

Ray looked at the hand on his shoulder. Felt the emotion in Tatiana’s words. Something else might be happening, his experience had taught him that much. Hands-on-shoulders could potentially lead to something more, and he didn’t want something more.

He shrugged off her hand gently. "Listen, Tatiana, i'm not sure if i'm reading this right, but, um... I don't really _do_ relationships?"

"Oh, no, that was not my intention," she rushed out, eyes wide with embarrassment. Ray nodded thankfully. "When you say you do not do relationships, do you mean-"

"I'm not gay," he clarified, "but I might as well be. I just... don't find people attractive. My parents think I just need to find the right woman, and i've stopped bringing it up, but... what if there's something wrong with me? What if it's a mental illness, or the A.S.S think it is, and I get locked up for it?"

Tatiana gripped his shoulders tightly, spinning him to face her. He winced. Her nails _hurt_. "There is nothing wrong with you, Ray. I can say that with confidence after many years of experience."

She gave him a sad smile. "It seems I have a habit of running into individuals who fit outside the norm."

Ray looked into her eyes, understanding immediately. "You're...?"

"Yes," she clipped, "fortunately, the KGB found my lack of attraction to be an advantage, rather than a deal-breaker."

She let go of his shoulders, which he immediately began massaging. "So... friends?" he offered, outstretching his hand carefully

"Friends," Tatiana responded, standing up. Before Ray could dejectedly lower his hand, however, she snatched it and pulled him up with her.

"Wha-hey! You're going to break my bones at this rate!" he whined, quickly shut up by Tatiana's graceful offer to confirm their 'friend' status.

"Let's go get drunk."

***

"Hey, love."

"Yes?"

Curt stuck his head out from the kitchen. "I need your opinion on something."

"Well, here I am," he replied jokingly, draping himself over the back of the couch, and therefore over Owen's shoulders. "It's about Chimera."

Curt raised an eyebrow at him. "What about them?"

"Be honest with me," Owen sighed, tracing his finger over his partner's cheekbone as an extra measure. Curt hummed in affirmation. "Do you think they're any different than the A.S.S? Or M16?"

He didn't think Curt's eyebrow could travel further up his face, but that's exactly what it did as he stared at Owen. _Elaborate_ , his gaze was saying. Owen nodded slightly before continuing.

"What I mean is, do you think they see us any differently? We are, for all intents and purposes, their property, like we were the property of our governments before. Are they really any better than _them_? Would they hesitate to throw us under the bus when we disobey them? Really think about it, dear."

Curt's hand found Owens, fingers intertwining slowly. "I guess not," he admitted amusingly, "but at least we can kiss around them."

Owen laughed at that. "Where are you going with this, Owen?"

The idea had been brewing itself in his head since they'd been 'loaned' to that idiot, Von Nazi. He hated the A.S.S, and he hated M16, because of what had happened to him. By that logic, shouldn't he hate Chimera? Were they inherently better than his old agency? _No_ , he'd decided, and the plan appeared in his mind, fully formed.

A tiny smile crept onto his face. Crooked, just as Curt liked, but in more ways than one. "Well, what if we got them to destroy each other? All we need to do is light the spark, then sit back and watch as they tear themselves apart. We wouldn't be property, to _anyone_."

"Kings of our own domain, huh?" Curt mused. He pressed a kiss to Owen's forehead.

"I'm listening."

***

"I don't know, Ray, isn't drinking before a mission irresponsible?"

"I trust the man, Barb!" the Informant shut her down quickly, four bottles of booze in hand. "Besides, we deserve some fun!"

"The vodka is mine," Tatiana snatched it out of his hand, already preparing a shot glass. "I doubt you light-weights can handle it."

"...yeah, that's fair," Ray said, nursing his whisky quietly. He gulped it down, wincing at the fiery feeling that followed it down his throat and into his stomach. Sticking out his tongue, he went to pour himself another glass. _It's not as bad as I remember_.

"Well, bottoms up!" Barb exclaimed cheerfully, downing her own drink succinctly.

The Informant gave them a scathing glare as he tore the cap from one of his bottles haphazardly, putting the neck up to his lips and chugging. "If you're gonna do it, do it properly!"

"That's what I am talking about!" Tatiana smiled in response.

***

Drinking in celebration had been Owen's idea. Curt agreed, if his husband promised not to let him get wasted. It turns out that promise came true, just not in the way he'd expected.

Curt was just starting to get tipsy when he put the drink down. He'd always assumed Owen's lack of drinking when they went out was to take care of him, or that his aversion to drinking had something to do with his professionalism. Now, the truth was probably closer to the fact that Owen took one sip of alcohol when he was 18, thought it tasted horrible and never touched it since. At least, that would be the most logical explanation for the current situation.

He'd suspected Owen was as much as a lightweight as him, but not to this extent. Now, he wouldn't be surprised if it took Owen an hour to get blackout-drunk on Shirley Temples. Curt _had_ to stay sober for this.

"That's enough, Owen," he deadpanned, hiding the liquor away again.

"Noooooooooo," Owen whined, stumbling towards him. The breath was knocked out of him as Owen collapsed onto his back. "Jesus, man-"

"I thought you loved me," he tried, swiping for the cabinet lazily. Curt doubted if he could hold up a glass of water without dropping it. "I do," he replied obviously, batting away Owen's arm.

"Then gimme the 'lc'h'l," he slurred, seemingly forgetting about the existence of vowels temporarily. Curt sighed.

"No."

"Y're no fun."

***

"No more," Ray struggled, forcing the drink away from him. Alcohol only really had one affect when it came to him; making him exponentially more tired as the minutes ran on. He was already battling the tameless urge to pass out as it was.

"Archer, you look terrible," Tatiana deadpanned, slamming her empty glass on the table and making Ray flinch. She'd already polished off a full bottle of vodka, and had yet to seem the slightest bit tipsy. _How the hell does she do that?_

Barb was a giggling mess in the corner, ranting about Anthony to the Informant.

"...and he's just so _dreamy_ ," she sighed, "ugh, I wanna marry him so bad!"

The Informant, for his part, was listening intently. Ray had no idea where the panic in his eyes was coming from until he heard the gagging. Poor guy was trying to hold back puke.

"Barb, get back!" Tatiana yelled as the Informant finally lost his valiant crusade.

"Grooss," Ray muttered, now falling back on his chair. He was definitely about to pass out.

***

"Cuuurt!"

Curt ignored him.

"Cuuuuuuurt!"

Owen was beginning to sound desperate. Curt's heart was yelling at him to go see what's up, but his brain knew better. Owen was drunk, it was nowhere _near_ an emergency.

"Cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrt!"

He gave a deep, exasperated sigh as he finally gave in. Damn Owen and his ways of pulling at Curt's heart strings.

He walked over to where Owen was draped, over the back of the couch. He looked both hyper-alert and like he was about to pass out at the same time. "What is it, Owen?" he asked casually.

"S'boring," he muttered, "Stay."

Curt rolled his eyes at his partner's antics, settling into the couch beside him. The minute he did so, Owen was suddenly draped over him instead. "Do you have bones?" Curt asked jokingly, one arm wrapping around Owen instinctively. He hesitated for a second. "Probably not," he decided, fully collapsing into Curt.

Curt stifled his own laughter as Owen continued rambling. "Y'see, s'cause of the love," he explained, as though it was the most logical thing in the world. "There's jus'so muchofit, isnotli'icansto'falling-" he slurred, mixing all of his words together in some sort of imaginary cauldron to make a potion of a speech that Curt was supposed to understand.

"Owen, you're not using any language on earth anymore," Curt said, hand in Owen's hair.

"Y's I am, y'just can't understand it."

Curt shrugged. "I sort of can; the point is that you love me, right?"

Owen pulled back, staring at him incredulously. "Curt," he said, clearly offended, "That is only th' _surface level_! Here, i'll elaborate."

He kissed Curt, full on the lips, drunkenly. It was messy, not the refined kisses Curt was used too, but he still liked it. Owen broke off, a mischievous smile on his face like he'd one some great battle. "I think I get it," Curt whispered to him.

"Gud," he said, then poked Curt playfully.

***

Ray was lying face-first on the ground. Whether he'd passed out, died, or started screaming his frustration into the floor, Tatiana didn't know. All she knew was that everyone except her was completely wasted.

Barb was a giggly, red-faced mess, slowly sliding off her chair as her train of thought led her laughter to increase in volume. The Informant had rushed to the bathroom a while ago, and judging by the retching sounds still echoing from beyond the door, he was still vomiting. He was probably up to yesterday's breakfast as this point.

"This was a bad idea," she realised, looking at all the drunken idiots she'd have to drag home.

 _Great going, Tatiana. Now you have to babysit all of them_.

***

"No."

"Owen, it's midnight."

"No."

"You came up with the plan, and we have to sleep eventually!"

"I wanna stay."

Curt sighed for the thousandth time that night. Drunk Owen was becoming more annoying by the minute. _Is this what I'm like when I'm drunk?_

"Come on, babe," he tried, hoping the pet name would have some effect. It did have an effect, but unfortunately for him, it was Owen breaking out into a fit of giggles. He couldn't be mad though; the feeling of his partner laughing into his shoulder, arms tight around him, was one he didn't mind.

"Don't leave," Owen's voice came out small, vulnerable. "I'm not going to," Curt responded, surprised. What train of thought had led here?

"D'you remember Toulouse? In the safe-house?" he started, in his own world at this point. "I was terrified of talking to you for a good while. I didn't want you to hate me if I told you about how I felt. You looked so confident on that mission, and when you were getting that girl to talk... I dunno, I felt like i'd dug my own grave. Fallen for someone who'd never feel the same. When I kissed you..." Owen shuddered. Curt pulled him closer.

"It all worked out for the best, Owen. You had pretty good judgement, to fall for the one gay agent in the A.S.S."

Owen laughed lightly. "I guess I did."

His laughter tapered off, and his breathing became slower, more even. Curt looked up to see that his eyes were closed. _Out like a light_.

"This is the second time i've had to carry you in two days, Carvour," he grunted as he picked Owen up, "and I'm starting to think you're doing this on purpose."

Owen stayed rudely passed out, not even stirring to dignify his statement with a snippy response. Curt smiled. Sometimes he was too adorable for his own good.

It took Owen approximately 10 seconds to start searching for Curt again once they got into bed. He rolled his eyes, letting his husband curl up on his chest.

He just hoped Owen wasn't too hung over to betray Von Nazi tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone talks about Lesbian Tatiana (which is completely valid), but have you considered... Homoromantic Asexual/Ace Lesbian Tatiana (I am WAY to proud of this headcannon fyi).  
> Also DRUNK OWEN DRUNK OWEN DRUNK OWEN-
> 
> From here on out, we go absolutely insane :D  
> Say goodbye to the musical's plot, folks!


	15. Confrontation

Owen was groggy as all hell. The light piercing through his eyelids defiantly was _far_ too bright, and the slightest rustle of leaves outside supercharged his already pounding headache.

He slowly eased his eyes open, the blinding light of the sun steadily worsening his annoying brain-pain. He managed to beat back the grogginess long enough to realise a couple of things.

First, he was lying in bed, still wearing yesterday's clothes. Second, he was curled up on Curt Mega's chest. Third, Curt was awake and gently running his fingers through Owen's hair. It was actually quite comforting, he could almost close his eyes and go back to sleep...

No, no, he needed to get up. Today was important. Today, he finally got to show his true colours. The thrill of the dramatic reveal always enticed him, and now he got to be at the centre. If only he could bring his head to stop imploding.

Owen groaned, shifting slightly. He could _feel_ Curt smile, the bastard, as he tightened his grip.

"Ugh, what happened?"

He sounded like he had a cold. Brilliant.

"What happened is you had one glass of whiskey and immediately got wasted, Owen."

He felt his blush rise as the memories started coming back. _Shit_.

"What did I say," he muttered, burying his head into Curt's shoulder to hide his red face. His partner chuckled.

"Cuuurt," he began, putting on an exaggerated, whiny voice. "Stay here, I want to rant to you about my undying looove for you!"

"Okay, i'll give you the voice, but I did _not_ say that," Owen snapped half-heartedly. More memories surfaced. God, he really had sounded like a needy toddler, hadn't he?

"Well, I thought it was adorable," Curt grinned, pecking him on the cheek.

"Yeah, yeah. Enough messing around, love, we need to go kill a Nazi."

"There should be some headache tablets on the sidetable for you."

"Thanks."

***

Ray rubbed his temple lightly as the Informant entered the room, disguised as a Government Official from Prussian Sloviskia. Von Nazi, The Deadliest Man Alive and the Hitman were already there, using the dead Prince as leverage to gain control of the nation. Both him and Tatiana were stuffed into a nearby closet, with Barb ready to jump in via Ray's communicator at any moment.

"I am never doing that again," he muttered, still nursing a slight hangover headache.

"Again, I apologise for mentioning it," Tatiana whispered back, "It is clear now that the idea was not the greatest."

"Wait, shhh." He gestured to the closet door. Von Nazi was singing again, and was that...?

Yep, the Officials were singing with him. He could hear the discomfort in the Informant's voice, forced to sing about Nazis to maintain cover. Ray did _not_ envy him.

The Deadliest Man Alive brought up the super castle again (seriously, why was he so insistent on this castle?). He _swore_ he could hear the Hitman snigger at this. This was swiftly cut off, however, by the familiar scratch of pen on paper as the deed to the land was signed.

"Wait," the Hitman hissed, footsteps growing closer to the closet. Ray began to tremble. _Shit_.

"Mr Hitman, what are you-?"

"No, 'e's right," came the Deadliest Man's voice. "There's someone 'else here..."

He heard the footsteps advance towards the centre of the room. "One of these men," the familiar Cockney growled, "Is a traitor."

"It's not just them!" the Hitman exclaimed. He'd stopped moving, at least. "There's something else afoot here..."

The deep Irish snarl would've made Ray jump, if he'd had the room.

" _Archer_."

"That's right!" he shouted, bursting out of the closet. Tatiana's gun was already out, and it took Ray a second to get his in position. He desperately hoped the room was too focused on the scary Russian to notice.

"Get out of here," Tatiana said, gesturing to the Politicians. They took her command instantly, speeding out of the room to Von Nazi's vocal dismay.

"Go after them!" he cried, which both the Deadliest Man Alive and the Hitman ignored.

"We just started a very amiable work relationship with them! We need them!"

"Actually, we don't," the Hitman smiled, eyes burning with something Ray couldn't recognise for the life of him.

"And 'ere's somethin' else we don't need."

Both men darted across the room to Von Nazi, knives in hand. The Deadliest Man Alive got there first, knife sliding into Baron's gut succinctly. Von Nazi staggered away, throwing glitter at his attacker, a desperate bid to halt him. The Deadliest Man cursed, and continued to stab him until he stopped moving.

"You... betrayed him?" Ray questioned.

"He threw glitter at you," the Hitman laughed, "Holy shit. He actually threw glitter at you!"

It didn't take the Deadliest Man Alive long to join in with the laughter.

"Well, it doesn't ma'er now, does it!" he grinned.

"We have it."

"We have it."

The Hitman approached the Deadliest Man slowly. "We did it.”

_Wait a minute... are they... hugging?_

They hugged. They actually hugged each other. _Nothing_ had prepared Ray for this. It wasn't a professional hug, either. It was the hug of two people who'd known each other for years; people who'd shared ups and downs, hardships and joys, and finally had confirmation that all their hard effort was worth it. Now? Now they couldn't be bothered to keep up appearances. They hugged, and they hugged long and hard.

"What is happening? Why does that deed mean so much?" Ray asked, noticing the way they gripped it like it was some holy artefact.

"Oh, would you look at that, Archer's confused!" The Hitman mocked, advancing towards him.

"Well, I wouldn't blame 'im, love," the Deadliest Man responded. "After all..."

His smile widened as the voice changed. "We are the best of the best."

The Cockney was gone. Still British, distinctly so, but more... posh. Refined. Like someone who'd trained to look their best. The weirdest thing is that Ray could _swear_ he'd heard that voice before.

The Hitman gave a matching smile, staring him right in the eyes. When he opened his mouth, a different voice came out, just like his 'partner'.

"Always have been, always will be."

Ray felt his stomach drop. He knew that voice. He _knew_ that voice. That obviously American voice, lilted with confidence and snark. The same voice heard in arguments with Cynthia behind closed doors. The same voice that warned terrorists that their time was up. The same voice Ray had heard has a mere trainee, paired with a winning smile and a suave swagger. The voice that'd died four years ago. He knew where he'd heard the British voice now.

They gripped the skin of their necks in unison, tearing upwards slowly, bringing the skin with them. Skin that was peeling off their faces like...

Plastic.

The masks fell to the floor, forgotten by the men who never needed them

Curt Mega and Owen Carvour stared at them triumphantly.

Tatiana met his eyes, understanding immediately.

"Mega? And Carvour?"

"Surprise!" Curt smiled, absolutely _savouring_ the looks on their faces. "What did I tell you, my dear?" Owen said, "the reveal is always the best part."

"I'm sorry I doubted you, old boy."

"It's fine now, love. The show has begun!"

Archer finally came to his senses, shaking his head like a confused dog. Owen was right; watching the confusion and _betrayal_ blossom in their eyes was fascinating.

"How are you here? You... you died. Four years ago, you died!"

Curt frowned, tilting his head in an imitation of Archer's befuddlement. He allowed a small chuckle at how taken aback the man was at his condescension.

"You say that like it isn't true, Agent."

"The thing is, being blown up by your respective agencies serves as a rather fantastic wake up call," Owen butted in, waltzing up behind Curt. "Maybe we shouldn't rely on close-minded _idiots_ who don't care if their agents die."

"Oh, it's worse than that," Curt scoffed, "because there's always another one of you, ready to take your place if you mess up!"

He glared at Archer. "I learned _that_ the hard way."

Curt laughed at the shiver that ran through his body at the growl in his voice.

"You're insane."

His attention was turned to the third member of their party, the Agent in disguise. "You'd be one of Cynthia's, yeah?" he inquired.

"I think that's the Informant," Owen judged, casting a predator's eye over him. _He's easy to get rid of_.

"Oh, I heard of you! You look kinda like Susan."

The Informant cocked his gun menacingly, venom in his eyes as he stared at Curt. "You betrayed your country, Mega."

" _Don't_ "

Owen's voice came out almost inhuman, arms snaking slowly around Curt's shoulders. He sighed, leaning back into Owen slightly.

"What is this?" the Informant asked, eyes wide with confusion, "what are you doing?"

Curt stared at him. Was he really that oblivious? Did he forget why the A.S.S was trying to kill him? Then, his husbands laughter.

"Of course, Cynthia didn't tell you!" he cried, leaning his chin on his partner's shoulder, "better to say we died tragically in the field than risk international embarrassment, hmm?"

His hand went to Curt's cheek, tilting his head towards him. His own hand met Owen's, fingers curling into each other. They were doing this, they were finally doing this.

Owen kissed him. Kissed him, long and hard, and Curt melted into it. Coiled his arms around his partner's shoulders, deepening the kiss. He could feel the shock radiating from the other side of the room, and he didn't give a rat's ass. He was kissing Owen, and he was doing it to show who he was; who _they_ were. Owen's hand carded through his hair, the golden ring he was wearing catching the light. They couldn't avoid looking at it now; they couldn't deny Curt of his feelings any longer.

They broke apart, and Curt didn't look anywhere but his husband's eyes. Owen was just as elated as him; they could finally end the charade. He was pulled into a hug just before he could pull his partner into one himself.

"You're sodomites," came the disbelieving voice of the Informant. Curt rolled his eyes at him, scoffing.

"Well, for lack of a better word, yes."

"Though we prefer the term _husbands_."

Archer shook his head again, re-evaluating his info.

"If you two are gay, then why would you turn to the _Nazis_!" he spluttered.

"Oh, you mean that idiot? We were playing him from the start!" Curt explained, gesturing to Von Nazi's corpse half-heartedly. Owen started walking over to it as Curt opened his mouth to continue.

"You see-"

"LOOK AT ME, I KEEP GLITTER UP MY SLEEVES, WAKKA WAKKA!"

He turned to Owen, who was puppeteering the corpse like it was the most casual thing in the world. Curt had to bite back a fit of laughter. Their eyes met, and Owen raised his eyebrow at him.

"What? I was just making a point."

Curt shook his head at him, still vehemently fighting the urge to crack up. Owen stood up, and continued.

"No, we only needed Von Nazi for _this_ ," Carvour declared, waving the deed like a flag.

Ray frowned. The Deadliest Man was always the one who reminded Von Nazi of the 'Nazi Castle', presumably for the deed to the land. Why?

Then, he remembered. Back in the Richman's Casino, when he was captured.

"The land," he thought out loud, "that Nazi you killed... he said it was rich in natural minerals."

"Pop goes the weasel! Sorry, love, looks like the new you is a smart one."

Mega scoffed. "Yeah, yeah, as long as you don't leave me for him."

"Would never dream of it."

"But yeah, Archer is right. That land is _rich_ with silicon, and let's just say our organisation was itching to get their hands on it."

"Your... organisation?"

"Ah, yes," Carvour cut in, "after our fall we met someone who introduced us to some friends of his."

"All it took was a little persuasion, and a couple of dead liabilities, and we managed to get close to its director."

"That's when dear Curt and I decided that, since we'd been abandoned by everyone else, might as well join in the fun!"

"It's called... _Chimera!_ "

No one said anything. Tatiana coughed slightly.

"Oh, come on guys!" Mega whined, "I put my all into that!"

"Well, I thought it was splendid, darling."

"What does _Chimera_ want with silicone?" Ray asked, hoping to get them back on track. If he was lucky, he could get a confession out of them.

"Hang on, Ray," Tatiana hissed before Carvour could interrupt again. "The little birdies... Von Nazi's technology, it would need silicone to work."

"Bingo! Damn, Tatiana is on _fire_ ," Mega joked. "A network that would expose everyone's secrets."

"A network that renders your agencies useless, effectively destroying this style of life."

"We'd know every little thing you'd said, and once it's global, so would everyone else. Soon enough, no-one would even care anymore!"

Tatiana growled. "You cannot just invade the privacy of millions of civilians!"

"This is madness! We'll find your little _network_ , and burn it to the ground," the Informant hissed

Silence. Then, they started laughing. _Laughing_. "You idiot! The current system takes up an entire island in the pacific ocean!"

 _That_ elicited a response. _What the hell? How could it be so big! How on earth have they been hiding this from us!_

Ray started towards them. He couldn't let them escape, not now. Not after everything he just heard.

He was crashing onto the table before he knew it. Mega was above him, spit flecking into Ray's face as he talked.

"As soon as they found out what I was, they had me killed and replaced with _you_. Ray fucking Archer, the new spy extraordinaire. The womanising creep they always wanted."

Hands, tightening around his throat. Ray spluttered helplessly.

"Don't think I didn't hear your belly-aching to Cynthia in Geneva. Just couldn't handle it, could you? That ego of yours wanted to be the talk of the town, but _no_. You're forever stuck in my shadow, Archer. You'll die second best."

Lights danced across his eyes. His vision was fading. He started to squeeze his fingers together in a desperate bid to get his attacker off him. Mega laughed, his broken eyes still coming through the fog of his mind.

"Looks like we both got fucked, didn't we?"

Ray squeezed harder, the pressure setting off the ring on his pinky. The poison dart shot out, hitting Mega's shoulder. He cursed, stumbling back as Ray gasped, drinking in the air like a rabid dog.

Tatiana caught him as he fell, breathing still heavy. His blurry eyes found Mega, downing what had to be something to slow the poison. He'd wasted his one dart. _Shit_.

He flinched away from a _bang_ besides him. The Informant fell, a red circle neatly carved through his forehead.

"An eye for an eye, Archer," Carvour snarled.

They ran, and Ray could do nothing to stop them.

"We have to..." he panted, still struggling to catch his breath, "we have to find the island... stop Chimera."

Tatiana nodded. "I'll call Barb."

Ray sat, staring through the door they'd escaped through.

"They're like us."

She sighed, following Ray's gaze. "Of course they are."

***

Curt winced as the needle pierced his arm.

"You're lucky its standard issue, love, otherwise we'd have to synthesise a cure."

He nodded, laying his head on Owen's shoulder.

"Do you think we gave them enough?"

Owen smiled, placing a hand on Curt's forearm. "For them to destroy it? More than enough."

"What do you say we meet them there?" he hummed, pressing a kiss to Owen's cheek.

"I say we should have all the fun we can get."

He sighed, cradling Curt affectionately. "But first, try to work off the poison."

"Like I'd ever die on you."


	16. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally supposed to be just 1 chapter, but it was incredibly long, so I had to split it up. BE PREPARED FOR MONOLOGUES PEOPLE.

"Ray? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Barb," Ray sighed, stopping himself from fidgeting his wrist too much and damaging the signal.

"What happened to you guys?"

"No time to explain," Tatiana cut in, grabbing Ray's wrist. _Ow._

"We need you to search for an island, probably about the size of a compound, that can store a computer network."

"Oh, that's easy! I've already been researching locations that fit that criteria-"

"-oh yeah, you mentioned that a little while ago, right?" Ray chirped before Tatiana interrupted.

"Yeah! Ooh, i've found one in the Pacific Ocean, but... there's already a facility there."

They smiled in unison.

"Fantastic, let's destroy it."

***

The facility towered above them, jutting from the sea-worn rock around them like a strange tumour that'd been growing unchecked for years. _That's actually kinda accurate._

"Let's blow it up," Tatiana deadpanned. Ray gulped.

"Alright, you have the-"

"Knife shoes and escape gum, yes," she sighed. "Can we just destroy it and get this over with?"

"I-yeah, you're right.”

Tatiana went first; she scaled across the slippery, slate-grey stones that formed their terrain like she had some sort of adhesive on her shoes. She gestured to Ray (who’d started frantically chewing a stick of gum) when she found an entrance point. He started to scale the rocks himself, every slip-up making him more conscious of the slowly ticking time-bomb he held in his mouth. He finally made it over to her, spitting out the gum and sticking it in a crevice. They blocked their ears quickly.

Ray still flinched at the _bang_ that came from beside him, powerful enough to bust open the hidden door but still quiet enough that only Tatiana and him could hear it. He went to open the door, only to be batted away, his partner gesturing upwards. The familiar _hiss_ of plane engines passed overhead.

"Now we go."

They slipped inside quickly, darting between the shadows of the skinny hallway. Unfortunately for them, the skinny hallway opened up into a thicker hallway, which branched off into other hallways.

"Split up?" he suggested, slightly annoyed. He'd been looking forward to fighting as a team, but now both of them would have to brave it alone. Hopefully they didn't stumble into and large groups and guards.

"Cover more ground," Tatiana said curtly, taking off to the left. Ray sighed, quelling the slight shakes in his hands, moving right.

He kept going further and further into the labyrinth of the compound, still unable to see any computers to blow up. The sound of the sea was getting louder, though, and the walls were becoming older and stained. He'd probably stumbled into the part least likely to house the tech they needed.

"Hello, Archer."

_Shit._

Ray turned, finding the split grin of Curt Mega staring back at him.

"Let's pick up where we left off, shall we?"

***

Tatiana cursed, banging her fist against the wall that marked the 5th dead end she'd encountered since setting off. This goddamn compound was designed to lead her in circles. At this rate, she'd never find the system. She let out a groan, about to turn around _again_ when she heard it. Footsteps, quiet and padding, sliding carefully across the concrete floor towards her.

She spun, gun in hand, face-to-face with Owen Carvour. He gave her a cocky smile, one hand moving to check if his long hair was safely slicked back. "You're prepared, I'll give you that."

"What do you want," she hissed, cocking the gun. He laughed.

"You really think we'd just let you _invade_ our base and blow it up? No, love, i'm here to stop you."

She gave him a smile of her own. "Then try it."

Something hit her foot. She looked down, finding a disk with a red flashing light at her feet. She swore, bolting down the corridor before it went off. Carvour was waiting for her.

She pointed the gun at his forehead, finger already pressing down. His hand flashed to her wrist, yanking it away from him as _one, two, three_ bullets spat out of her gun. Tatiana growled, trying to pull it from his grip as the bomb went off behind her.

Dark smoke billowed down the corridor, wriggling it's way up her nostrils and filling her eyes. She coughed, trying to shoot her attacker again and again. Not even the flashes of the muzzle could illuminate him in this complete darkness. Then, a hand around her throat, and she felt herself _slam_ against the wall. She pressed the gun to his stomach, pulling the trigger.

_Click._

Damnit. She shouldn't have wasted those bullets.

Out of options, she dropped the gun, letting herself be strangled. Letting him grow confident. He was towering over her, a slight sadness to the manic energy painted across his face. Carvour took one step forwards, and she kneed him in the groin, tumbling out of the smoke as he cursed. She'd emerged on the side that wasn't a dead end, and began running.

A sharp _yank_ pulled her back; Carvour had grabbed her ponytail, pulling her into a headlock.

"Really should cut it short, dear," he muttered, "or at least don't put it in a ponytail. Open invitation for it to be grabbed."

Tatiana chuckled slightly. "I knew one girl," she choked, trying to bat him off, "who wore it in a braid."

He laughed. "A _braid?_ Poor girl, she basically gave them a rope!"

She smiled as her heels clicked together, unsheathing the blades in her souls as she kicked back. Carvour gave a muffled shout, arms shooting to the injury out of instinct. Tatiana tried to run again, crying out as something tangled around her feet. Carvour had his own tricks, it seems; a sort of rubbery substance had encased her, and he was sealing the wounds caused from the knife with the same stuff. "Barb's doing, correct?" he asked, stomping on the weak spot where the blades connected to the shoes. They broke off instantly.

"You think I only have one knife?" she quipped back, slicing through the bonds. Carvour ducked under her arm, striking the elbow joint as he went. Her arm folded inwards, and he gripped her wrist like a vice, slowly opening her fingers as he stole the knife. "Well, to be fair, you only had one gun."

"Knives are more fun."

" _Finally_ , someone who understands. You would not believe the amount of teasing I got for the machete."

She smiled painfully at him, twisting her wrist and pulling it free, stumbling back as she went. "You need a new husband if he doesn't think machetes are cool."

Carvour returned her smile, though his was more sappy and reminiscent. "Oh trust me, he does; he's just jealous he didn't get one."

Tatiana rolled her shoulders, assuming the stance burned into her from years of training. "Fists it is."

The brit sighed. "Seems like it, my dear."

***

Mega was good. Like, _really_ good.

The man was built like a tank; shorter than Ray, but stocky and powerful. This guy was practically _made_ for overpowering opponents.

Ray had always specialised in defence; he'd dodge, dart and scamper until he saw an opening, and he hoped that whatever he did to apprehend the obstacle was enough for him to run off and do whatever he needed too. Mega wasn't letting him do that. Being smaller meant he also had speed on his side; whatever manouvre Ray tried, he'd be met with a fist or a knee.

And by god, did it _hurt_.

Ray dashed past Mega's fist, realising the feint too late when a swift elbow to the ribs knocked the breath out of him. It wasn't just _too_ the ribs, either; it's dug it's way under them, piercing the soft flesh of Ray's midsection, forcing him to keel over. Mega grabbed his head, thumb sliding just under the edge of his jaw as his finger pressed against the area behind his ear. A sharp _twang_ of pain ricocheted through his skull, twisting his head into his enemy's waiting chokehold.

Mega didn't speak, and that was the worst part. No matter what happened, he kept the permanent expression of righteous happiness. It was fucking terrifying, and didn't help Ray with his nerves at all.

He spluttered desperately, one hand leaving its futile attempt to pry Mega off to fish through his pockets. Nothing could be done as he was dragged through the damaged hallway, his kicking not even irritating Mega.

He finally managed to wrap his clumsy fingers around the cylindrical shape of his pen, wrenching it out of his pocket. His attacker, clearly thinking it to be a knife, moved his leg out of stabbing range without loosening his hold. Ray allowed himself to smile through the pain as he brought the pen up to the side of his face, clicking the end. A jet of foul-smelling acid sprayed from the end, directly into Mega's eyes. He cursed, his arms relaxing enough for Ray to wriggle out, darting away before the other could get his bearings again.

It seems he'd been dragged to the oldest, most rundown section of the compound. The wall was riddled with cracks and dents from years of wear, light patches marking where it'd been temporarily 'fixed'. Ray fumbled with his gun as he went, hoping to at least get the jump on whatever came to stop him next.

Something flew past his ear, burying itself in the wall besides him with a flurry of crumbling stone. He flipped around quickly, facing down a now supremely pissed Mega with a gun pointed directly at his heart. Ray brought up his own firearm, only for it to be immediately shot out of his hand. He whimpered, backing up hurriedly before the killing blow was struck.

Mega's scowl shifted, more confused than angry. He tilted his head at Ray, almost questioningly. He had no idea what was going on, just hoping the extra time was enough for him to leave safely.

_Why the hell did he whimper?_

An idea surfaced in Curt's mind, and he shifted the aim of his gun, squeezing the trigger again. A bullet buried itself in the floor next to Archer, causing him to scurry away from it, terrified. He stomached a squeal as his back hit the wall he'd unknowingly backed into, turning to regard Curt again. His eyes said it all.

Ray was going to die. That was inevitable now. He couldn't stop the trembling, the fear, the listlessness of wondering how eternal blackness would feel.

No, not blackness. Just... nothing.

Tears were building in his eyes. He wiped them furiously. Ray didn't want to die like this; crying and alone in a compound only he knew about. Hopefully Tatiana could get it done without him.

Ray stared up at Mega, waiting for the final blow. Instead, he was staring at him with something that looked like... confusion? re-evaluation? Ray didn't know.

He spotted it, in his peripheral; the gun. His eyes darted back to his keeper, judging what to do next.

Deep within Mega's eyes, something snapped. _Clarity_. His gun wavered, lowering slightly.

Ray darted to his own firearm, returning the earlier favour and shooting the gun out of Mega's hand, darting down a tiny subsidiary hallway to try and escape.

Curt picked up his gun, slowly, staring after Archer's retreating form.

 _Retreating_. You couldn't fake that fear. You couldn't fake that hopelessness, those tears. Someone who thought the world of themselves wouldn't have accepted their death the minute they were cornered. _No, it was earlier than that. The minute he saw me_.

He could only whisper one thing, under his breath.

"It wasn't an act?"

***

Carvour cursed, bruise rising on his face. Tatiana smiled as she moved to sweep his feet from under him, swinging her leg gracefully. He stepped over it like it wasn't there, instead using her lowered stance to block her way forwards. She came up, trying to jab him. He dodged, over and over and over, before darting his hand out besides her ear.

She yelled as pain laced its way through her brain, hands instantly shooting to her face. She _hated_ having her ears boxed. This momentary weakness was used to send a knee to her gut, forcing Tatiana to double over. Carvour caught her, grip too strong for her to escape.

"Tatiana, listen to me," he said, no, he _pleaded_. She raised her eyebrows at him, still struggling.

"Why should I? You promised me a way out, you led me along for your own sick schemes."

"No, you don't GET IT! I had NOTHING to do with Von Nazi, I didn't know he'd hired you, I couldn't control your stake in this!"

She spat at him. "What you are doing is _wrong_. I will never listen."

He glared at her, long and hard. "Do you think the A.S.S will be better to you? Or M16? Do you _truly_ believe that the people who ruined my life are better than the people who've ruined yours?"

She froze, staring at him. Carvour sighed.

"It's all the _same_ , Tatiana. We're property to them. Objects, means to an end, to be thrown out when we're defective, or replaced by the latest model. Nothing about this life is forgiving. Nothing about _them_ is forgiving. If they'd had their way, I would be dead. My Curt would've been dead. They'd do it to you, at the drop of a hat. The only way forward is to forget them; let them burn with their mistakes, let them rot in the ash and dust. We can move forward, make new lives for ourselves."

Silence.

"What do you suggest?" Her voice came out hushed, a forbidden whisper.

Carvour gave a small smile, laced with empathy. "Leave them. You don't have to join us. All you have to do is watch, and wait. When they're gone, nothing will be stopping you, Tatiana."

He was begging now. "Please. We don't have to be enemies."

Tatiana closed her eyes. Let out a breath. She brought her foot down on Carvour's, full force, shoving him away. He cursed, looking at her sadly. It wasn't disappointment, exactly, just... dejected understanding. Like he knew where she'd come from.

"I guess that's a no," he muttered. "Shame. I really like you, surprisingly."

She shook herself off, ready for round 2.

Hopefully Archer was doing better than her right now.


	17. Fateful Farewell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, writing this chapter: and YOU get a monologue, and YOU get a monologue, and- you've already had a monologue? WELL GUESS WHAT BUDDY-

Ray was stuck. Stuck in a crumbling, old hallway, facing down a madman with a gun. His hand gripped the crack in the wall besides him as some sort of lifeline; a rock jutting out of the turbulent, dark sea.

Mega was regarding him with a strange look in his eyes.

"You really are, aren't you?" he asked, almost laughing

Ray did a double-take. "W-what?"

"A coward. A nervous wreck, whatever. You know, I thought you'd actually be a _little_ bit like me, but no."

He started laughing.

"God, I really am an idiot."

Ray held up his hands, quelling the fear bubbling within him. "We're more similar than you think."

Mega raised his eyebrow. "I _really_ fucking doubt that."

"No, listen. You say they got rid of you because you're homosexual, right? And now you're getting back at them, because you just want a normal relationship with Carvour, and they're-"

"Don't," he hissed, venom in his eyes. "Don't you fucking _dare_ bring Owen into this."

He laughed, regarding Ray with a sick derision.

"You think you know what it feels like? You think-"

"-that I know what it's like, for everyone to tell you who you should love."

He looked into Mega's eyes, hoping to find something like himself.

"Your entire life, you're expected to find 'the one'. One day, you'll see a girl, and you'll fall, and marry her. Then every day, you wait. Wait for that one moment, that _click_ , that spark, when you look at a woman and know you've found her. Each day goes by, and nothing happens. You become desperate. You try to force it; force yourself to find someone, force yourself to try. Year after year, and one day, it hits you; _t_ _hat will never happen_. You will never fall for a girl, that life will never come. You can't find her, because she doesn't exist."

He was walking now, slowly advancing towards Mega.

"When that day comes, you look yourself in the mirror. And you think to yourself, _what is wrong with me?_ What cosmic fluke, what strike of bad luck doomed me to a life of secrecy? Why can't I do this? You know what they'll call you, you know what will happen if they find out. The best case scenario is being stuck, homeless and forgotten, on the streets until you die. Or maybe in a padded cell, electrocuted and prodded while they try to find out what's wrong. While they try to ‘fix’ you. At that point, you start to wonder; _am I broken?_ If you are, you know you can't be 'fixed'."

He couldn't stop now, feet moving on autopilot.

"And you only have two choices; to agree with them, you are wrong, you are broken and beyond hope. Or, to find in within you to accept it, and to accept the burden of secrecy for the rest of your life."

Ray was crying again. This time, he couldn't be bothered to stop the tears.

"Don't tell me I don't know what it's like," he bit, four years of hate and turmoil tainting his words. "You're not the only one to suffer with this."

Mega was staring at him. What lay beyond those eyes, Ray couldn't tell. The storm wailing in his chest beat against his ribcage, threatening to shatter his ribs to bits.

"Huh," was all he said.

Silence.

Mega wasn't looking at him anymore, giving Ray the opportunity to extract something from his pocket.

"I was naive," his enemy begun, and his hands fell back to his sides as the gun pointed at him straightened.

"I knew the risks; I knew what would happen if they found out. Still, I thought that... I dunno, maybe Cynthia would take pity, maybe she'd see sense and hide it for us. Look where that got me. Look where it got _us_."

His head tilted at Ray, regarding him with the same sick joy as before. No, not the same. There was a new dimension to it now, something other than hatred fuelling that fire.

"You know what, Ray Archer? I feel sorry for you."

The gap between them closed, the barrel of the gun moving from its place hovering above Ray's chest to press itself between his eyes. The cold metal burned him.

"You're a jittery, nervous coward who's default way of protecting himself is freezing. You try and pretend to be suave and cool to save your ass, but only dig yourself deeper. One day you'll get yourself killed, and you're so _ready_ to die that you break down the minute you're cornered. Not only that, but if you're anything like me... then they _will_ find out. And you will die. Or, you'll be strapped to a gurney as they 'evaluate' you, trying to break down what they think is wrong. You're like me; hopeful that it will never happen, but you're wrong. Always will be. I pity you"

The smile widened.

"That won't stop me from killing you."

Ray balked. "B-but I-"

"YOU THINK I CARE!?" Mega cracked, laughing his ass off. "You think I give a FUCK anymore?! ALL OF THIS is what's wrong. Sure, this _tiny_ little piece of the puzzle is different. I'll admit it; I truly don't have a reason to hate you. You being an arrogant prick? Lies. You being a womanising fuck? LIES! Except, there's one problem with that assessment; _it doesn't matter_. You need to die, and I'll take _great_ pleasure at dragging your battered corpse all the way to Cynthia, and the _look on her face_ before Owen blows it off. Heck, does she even know about us? How many lies have I been told! All I know is what I want, no- what I need to do."

He cocked his head at Ray, fire in his eyes. "No hard feelings, Archer."

"None taken," he replied, spitting out the huge wad of gum he'd been chewing and burying it in the weak point of the crumbling wall beside him. Mega's eyes widened as he realised what it was, forgetting Ray and bolting away. Ray ran in the opposite direction as it went off. The rumbling continued as the cracks in the already damaged wall spread farther and wider, dust raining as it started falling down.

***

Tatiana was on the floor. So was Carvour. She'd lost track of the amount of times they'd rolled over, how many times she'd kicked and bitten him to get him off.

She fired a kick at his stomach, and they rolled again, Carvour refusing to let go. At least now Tatiana was on the offensive. This was quickly changed when his fist rocketed into her jaw, finally separating them. She flung herself to her feet, ready to charge, when she realised.

Their tumbling had led her to a suspicious crack in the wall. Well, 'crack'. It looked as though someone had taken a knife and sliced it like it was cake. _A hidden entrance._

 _The system_.

She turned to face Carvour. He was brushing the dust off his shirt, seemingly unworried about the angry bruises and bite marks rising on his skin. Tatiana almost winced at it herself. _Not my finest hour_. But, she was a good spy, so she got to the point.

"You did this on purpose, didn't you."

It was a statement, not a question. Carvour smiled at her, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

"When I said _all_ of them are the same, I meant it, love."

She frowned back at him. "What is your end goal here?"

A shrug. "I'm not entirely sure; a life without stuck-up pricks breathing down my neck, preferably."

Tatiana opened her mouth to respond when they heard it; a loud rumbling from somewhere else in the complex.

"An explosion?"

Carvour's eyes widened. "It came from the outer corridors; it's unstable there, an explosion-"

He never finished, shoving his way past Tatiana to dash down the corridor. She cursed, chasing after him.

 _Wait_. She threw her jacket on the floor, a marker so she could find her way back to the system. Carvour's panicked shouts echoed down to her.

"CURT!"

Owen ran, ran like his life depended on it. The rumbling was getting louder- if Archer had picked the right weak point, the entire section could fall into the sea.

He was getting closer; dust began to clog the air.

 _The air around him was getting hotter, preparing for the final_ rush _that came with the explosion. His broken body couldn't shift away as the ceiling caved in; Curt was besides him, and he couldn't even turn to-_

NO. That wasn't happening, _that_ _wasn't happening_. Owen couldn't let it happen, not again. Couldn't afford to freeze, couldn't afford to wait. Had to find Curt.

"Owen!"

Curt stumbled out of the smog and dust; relatively uninjured, just covered in finely ground concrete. Still, Owen wrapped him in his arms instantly.

"You're okay," he breathed, relief flooding his system. "Oh god, you're okay-"

"You're not!" Curt exclaimed, pulling away to look at him. "You're covered in bruises, and- _are those bite marks?_ "

Owen shrugged. "It got a little intense."

"Oh, she even messed up your hair!" Curt tutted, tucking it back behind his ear.

They held on to each other, sinking to the floor. "Where is Archer," he growled.

"Don't know. Oh, and there's been a couple of updates on that whole situation. Turns out Archer wasn't _exactly_ what A.S.S thought he was."

He smiled as Curt buried himself into Owen's chest. "I'm all ears, love.”

***

"We need to leave," Tatiana wisely told him as the counter started ticking down.

"Yeah, don't feel like being blown up twice in one day," Ray responded, still coughing up some remaining ash and concrete.

They bolted, looking for any sort of exit to let them out of this hell-hole. They were both fed-up; they wanted to destroy Chimera and go home already. Fate, however, had other plans.

Mega and Carvour were unlocking some sort of exit in front of them, pressed so close together that one could mistake them for a single person from a far enough distance. Carvour turned at the sound of their footsteps, Mega scowling at them. Ray brandished his gun before they could attack.

"What do you want now," Mega growled, dejected. "Come to kill me, have you? Finally move on from the legacy of Agent Curt Mega, free yourself of your burden by ending it all."

Carvour tightened his hold on Mega.

"No," Ray stated simply. "I'm not like you."

He chuckled sadly, collapsing into his partner. "Probably for the best."

Carvour send them daggers through his eyes, clutching his husband dearly. "You'll never catch up to us."

"This facility is destroyed; your network is no more."

"Maybe this one is gone, Tatiana, but what of the others?"

She paled. "There are others?" 

Carvour sighed, looking at Ray.

"Well, Archer? You've cornered us. We're defenceless. Go on; lock us up. Keep us apart for all eternity. It's the least we deserve."

Mega looked to his partner. "Babe... I'm not sure about this."

"Neither am I, love," he whispered.

Ray looked at them. Really looked at them. Looked at the affection in Carvour's eyes. Looked at the way Mega held onto him.

"Run."

They turned to him, silent. He gestured to the door with his gun.

"Go. Run away. You two love each other, that much is clear. But you've been through more that any couple _should_ go through. Four years spent with no support network, no friends, no one you could confide in besides each other. After all that strain, after all your relationship must've been through, and you're still together. You still love each other, hell, you called each other _husbands_ before. I know something good when I see it. It's not something i'll ever want, or need, but I know how it matters. So i'm telling you; leave. Go find a cottage in the middle on nowhere. Live your life. Forget about the A.S.S, or M16, or any of this. Leave it all behind."

Carvour frowned at him. Ray sighed.

"No-one will have to know you're alive. Just...go."

Mega stared at him. "And if we come back..."

"Then i'll have to do my job."

They looked at him, then looked at each other, searching for permission in the other's eyes. They nodded in unison.

Tatiana stared at him as the door swung closed behind them. "Why?"

He shook his head, trying to clear some of the smog from his brain.

"I... I don't know."

She ran her hand over the now-spotless wall.

"I can't open it, we'll have to find another exit before this place blows."

Ray nodded.

 _I hope I don't have to face you two_ _again._


	18. Epilogue

"Do you have any leads on these 'other compounds?'"

"No; that's all Tatiana managed to get out of him before he escaped."

Cynthia sighed, forcing the end of the cigarette into the ashtray, crumpling it.

"Well, fuck."

She stood up, staring Ray dead in the eye.

"I understand you wanting to chase after the Hitman and the DMA-"

"DMA? Are we abbreviating it now?"

"Don't interrupt me, Archer."

Ray shut up.

"As I was saying, they are two wanted criminals, and god knows they deserve to be locked in the worst hellhole we can find. Right now, they're not our concern."

Cynthia sighed. "I'm giving you _one chance_ to make up for your colossal fuck-up in Geneva, Archer. Find the Chimera compounds, and blow those fuckers to kingdom come. You can work with whoever the fuck you want, just get it done and don't come back into my office until it is. Got it?"

"Of course," he replied.

She _harrumphed_ , arms crossed. "Now get to fuck outta here and save the world."

Tatiana sipped her coffee lightly as they walked.

"Do you really think they'll take your advice?" she mused.

Ray shrugged. "You said that Carvour led you to the system, right?"

"Mm."

"Then they won't get involved as long as the A.S.S is fighting them."

She turned to him, a questioning look in her eye. "You are sure they will not cause more chaos?"

"I never said that," he chuckled sadly, looking over the abandoned wharf that'd served as their defacto meeting place.

"I just hope they cause it somewhere else."

***

They'd lost contact with Chimera. The last message to come through was informing them that A.S.S agents had destroyed their oldest compound, and that 'more drastic measures' were being taken to protect their network. After that, they'd blipped out, and it was assumed that they'd been compromised, possibly captured by the A.S.S, or forced into hiding.

In short, they'd faked their deaths a second time.

Curt sipped his champagne gently as he watched the sea pass beneath him. It was a quite spectacular find, on Owen's part. A particularly wealthy boat-maker modified one of his speedboats for a romantic getaway with his wife, to celebrate their anniversary. The trip was apparently planned to last about a month, so they should be good for a little while. Would have to stop occasionally for supplies, but they'd already planned things like that out.

He frowned, tracing his fingers over the rim of the deck. There was a red stain there, too dark and purple-y to be paint...

Curt turned as Owen emerged from the lower deck, wearing his signature leather jacket with the red stripes. They both loved that jacket (Curt had stolen it on many occasions, and Owen didn't really care). "I think there's still a bit of Mr. Monroe, here, hun," he called out, gesturing to the stain. His husband waltzed over, running his thumb over it. "We'll clean it off tomorrow," he decided. "I think we have more pressing matters at hand."

He produced a record from within his jacket, causing Curt to laugh. "Damn, he was just as cheesy as I am," he quipped as Owen set it on the record player discreetly set up in the corner.

Owen's arms curled around his waist, as his own snaked around his partner's shoulders, and they began swaying to the lazy tune pouring over the deck.

"I don't know if we've done enough," Curt muttered, laying his head on his lover's shoulder gently.

Owen sighed. "In all honesty, love? I don't know either."

One of his hands detached itself from his waist, moving instead to stroke Curt's hair.

"If we've done this right, we won't have to step in again."

They waltzed gently around the deck for a while, savouring the warm pinks and golden hues of the setting sun as it reflected across the calm waters. Owen pulled back, hand moving to cup Curt's face. He stomached the instant reaction to recoil at how _cold_ Curt was, skin burning more than his ring.

"Curt, darling, you're freezing," he chided, breaking off the dance. He took off the jacket gracefully, wrapping it around his partner's shoulders. "Here."

"Babe, I can't-" he began, though not shrugging the jacket off.

"Oh, please, we both know how you are with the cold."

Curt didn't protest after that. I mean, the jacket _was_ nice. He buried himself into Owen's chest as the sun finally blinked out. "You're warmer."

Owen chuckled, leading them both below deck, where Curt wouldn't freeze to death.

That night, M16 agents cornered one of the many nameless Chimera agents, shooting to kill. That night, the Man with No Name sighed as his organisation sent out Agent after Agent to quell the threat. That night, a Russian woman with shining ginger hair coaxed the first piece of evidence out of one of these Agents as her partner started to narrow down the facilities locations. That night, the second silent war began; Chimera vs A.S.S and M16, a war colder than anything America and Russia could produce.

Owen Carvour and Curt Mega lay there, bobbing in unconscious bliss as the world burned around them for a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand we are finished! Hoo boy, was that a journey!  
> I may or may not do a spin-off of this in the future, because honestly this was the most fun I've had writing a fic in a while! My two main ideas are either a prequel focusing on Toulouse, or a more Archer-centric fic w/ Murder Husbands as the defacto villains.  
> I know this is kind of an ambiguous ending, but I kind of like it like that. The main story I wanted to write is over and done with, and now the Murder Husbands are loose on the world at large!  
> Thank you so much for the comments and the kudos, it means the world to me. I always love waking up and checking my inbox to see people commenting and talking about this fic! I hope you enjoyed it, because I know I did :D  
> And who knows? Maybe the Murder Husbands go on to lead a happy life, free of the more overtly-murdery tendencies, from here on! Maybe Chimera is destroyed by Archer and Tatiana!  
> Thanks again for reading, and please wash your hands.  
> 


End file.
